A  CHANGE 
OF  AIR. 


KATHARINE  FULLERTON 
CEROULD 


BOOKS  BY 

KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD 

PUBLISHED  BT  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR.    Illustrated.    12mo      net  $1.25 

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A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 


or 


CAur.  UMUM.  u* 


"  I  have  called  you  here,  my  dear  friend-,  to  >ay  that   I  have  eome 
to  a  definite  decision  as  (<>  (lie  disposal  of  my  fortune." 

[rage  8. 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 


BY 

KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD 


ILLUSTRATED   BY  H.  J.  MOWAT 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER*S  8ON3 


Published  October.  1917 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  I  have  called  you  here,  my  dear  friends,  to  say  that 
I  have  come  to  a  definite  decision  as  to  the  dis- 
posal of  my  fortune " Frontispiece 

FACING    PAOK 

"  I  can't  stand  the  weather.  So  I  am  taking  your  ad- 
vice. I'm  leaving  to-night  " 96 

In  a  few  words,  nervous  but  clear,  he  put  the  situation 

before  them 140 

Leaven  .  .  .  could  see  from  his  windows  life  returning 

to  the  world.     But  within  the  grayness  deepened     204 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 


THE  stuffy  drawing-rooms  were  full 
of  people.  Some  of  the  group  real- 
ized the  stuffiness,  and  would  have  liked 
more  air;  some  of  them  were  too  much 
overawed  to  mind  an  atmosphere  that 
knew  how  to  live  with  ancestral  mahog- 
any. There  were  those  who  averted  their 
gaze  from  the  black-walnut  "what-not"; 
there  were  those  who  ached  with  desire  of 
its  beauty.  There  were  young  eyes  that 
could  have  appraised  to  a  penny  the  big 
royal  Bokhara  rug  in  the  front  room,  and 
watery  eyes  behind  glasses  that  knew 
just  how  much  work  had  gone  into  the 
complicated  rag  carpet  before  the  fire  in 
the  room  beyond.  There  was  Bessie  John, 
[  1  1 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

dressed  in  well-cut,  much-worn  tweed, 
prettily  intent  on  ivory  chessmen  from 
the  Summer  Palace;  and  old  Miss  Bean, 
whose  gloveless  hands  showed  the  stabs 
of  a  thousand  relentless  needles.  Little 
Julie  Fort  dangled  a  German-silver  vanity 
case  from  her  bare  left  hand  and  hid 
her  paint-smudged  right  in  a  cheap  fitch 
muff.  Next  her  sat  Walter  Leaven, 
gaunt,  correct,  threadbare,  with  time- 
stiffened  figure  and  time-eroded  face. 
Young  Jim  Huntingdon  sprawled  uncom- 
fortably on  the  gilt  Louis  Seize  chair 
to  which  fate  had  unkindly  led  him. 
Bleached  hair  and  tanned  face  recorded 
the  onslaught  of  tropic  suns  and  of  winds 
that  acknowledged  no  human  responsi- 
bilities. Now  and  then  he  threw  up  his 
head  and  snuffed  the  air  uncomfortably, 
like  an  animal  —  panting  a  little  as  he 
sprawled.  And  others  —  and  yet  others  — 
in  every  variety  of  attitude,  filling  the 

[2] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

two  great  rooms,  surging  into  corners, 
pressing  hard  against  door- jambs. 

Now,  at  last,  the  rooms  were  full.  For 
five  minutes  the  shadowy  butler  had  not 
introduced  a  new  member  to  the  group. 
There  was  little  talk,  for  of  this  large 
number  of  people  many  found  them- 
selves alone  among  strangers.  Even  those 
known  to  each  other  were  suspicious  and 
silent,  for  no  one  knew  why  he  had  been 
summoned.  Eager,  proud,  annoyed,  mis- 
erable: many  qualities  of  facial  expression 
were  there;  and  all  slightly  sharpened 
by  resentment.  No  one  would  have 
minded  meeting,  alone,  the  rich  hostess 
who  had  not  yet  appeared;  but  this  unex- 
plained crowd,  like  a  prayer-meeting  or 
a  table  d'hote,  was  maddening.  It  savored 
of  sermons  or  of  some  abominable  char- 
ity. Still,  they  had  all  responded  to  the 
summons,  and  they  waited,  unprotest- 
ing;  for  they  were  all  poor.  Sometimes 
[3] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

two  glances  crossed  like  swords  fore- 
stalling an  insult;  but  no  one  got  up  and 
went  out.  The  same  fact  chained  them 
all  to  their  places;  and  each  tried  not  to 
realize  that  this  was  so.  Their  relations 
to  Miss  Wheaton  differed  widely.  Some 
had  exploited  her  and  some  had  really 
loved  her,  but  nothing  in  the  past  of 
any  of  them  —  and  this  feeling  was  every- 
where, like  the  stuffy  air  —  justified  this 
ruthless  association  of  him  with  others. 
These  people,  while  they  waited  for  Miss 
Wheaton,  bristled  with  individualism; 
they  were  half  a  hundred  "special  cases," 
having  nothing  in  common  with  their 
fellow  guests  but  the  perfectly  fortuitous 
and  undeserved  circumstance  of  poverty. 
There  were  those  there  who  could,  with 
contentment,  have  made  a  quick  way  to 
the  door,  distributing  kicks  as  they  went. 
But  no  one  stirred.  Two  men  —  one  of 
them  Bessie  John's  husband  —  marooned 
[4] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

together  on  a  Sheraton  bench  between 
the  wall  and  a  door,  looked  at  each 
other  suddenly,  an  identical  phrase  in 
the  eyes  of  each:  "If  one  could  only 
smoke  !"  But  neither  uttered  a  word. 

Bessie  John  gave  herself  up  to  futile 
scorn  of  a  rich  woman  whose  drawing- 
rooms  were  furnished  as  heterogeneously 
as  the  Ark  was  peopled.  But  she  showed 
her  scorn  only  in  her  smile,  which  she 
directed,  with  dishonest  explicitness,  at 
old  Miss  Bean.  Fortunately  Miss  Bean's 
own  eyes  were  resting,  fascinated,  on 
Jim  Huntingdon.  She  had  a  furtive  hope 
that  this  young  giant  —  whom  she  did  not 
know  —  might  break  the  gilt  chair  on 
which  he  sprawled.  If  he  did,  she  knew 
a  man  no  one  else  could  possibly  know, 
who  could  mend  it  beautifully.  To  her 
the  catastrophes  of  the  rich  were  the  sole 
providence  of  the  poor.  She  was  ready 
to  exclaim  louder  than  any  one  if  he  did 
[5] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

break  it  —  and  then  to  slip  up  to  Miss 
Wheaton  with  the  precious  address.  Miss 
Bean  liked  to  be  useful.  Smiles  came 
your  way  if  you  were  useful;  otherwise, 
never.  Stiff  on  her  horsehair  sofa,  she 
hated  the  young  man  for  being  there,  on 
the  gilt  chair.  Why  should  he  be  there 
at  all?  She  did  not  hate  Miss  Wheaton, 
who  had  been  kind  to  her;  but  she  would 
not  have  minded — except  in  humble 
speech  —  having  the  chair  break.  Some 
of  the  others  concealed  similar  medita- 
tions deep  within  them;  but  with  Miss 
Bean  they  were  very  close  to  the  surface. 
She  was  so  humble  that  one  wheezing 
manner  sufficed  to  her  contacts  with 
life.  It  was  such  an  ostentatiously  un- 
lucky manner  that,  like  rags,  it  took 
every  one  in.  Few  were  so  wretched  that 
they  were  not  obliged  to  pity  her.  She 
had  probably  never  before  encountered, 
at  the  same  time,  so  many  natural  ene- 
[61 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 
mies  as  this  afternoon.  But  she  did  not 
notice   them;   she   was   waiting,   almost 
breathless,  for  the  chair  to  break. 

Every  one  was  finally,  now,  very  still. 
Only  Walter  Leaven,  whose  tiny  annuity 
had  enabled  him  to  preserve,  and  not 
sell,  a  few  priceless  affections,  grew  rest- 
less. In  spite  of  his  poverty,  he  would 
have  made  a  bolt  for  it  if  he  had  not  so 
trusted  Cordelia  Wheaton. 

It  was  not  characteristic  of  Miss  Whea- 
ton to  keep  her  friends  waiting;  indeed, 
it  was  with  a  phrase  of  apology  that  she 
entered.  She  took  her  stand  in  the  uncur- 
tained arch  between  the  two  big  rooms, 
refusing  the  chairs  offered  her.  She  was 
a  mass  of  burdensome  soft  flesh.  Her 
hand  was  white  like  moulded  wax;  her 
gentle  blue  eyes  seemed  to  take  reluc- 
tant command  among  features  long  since 
conquered,  most  peacefully,  by  alien  tis- 
sue. She  looked  unhealthy,  as  fat,  white, 
[7] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

small-boned  women  do;  but  there  was 
no  gross  suggestion  in  her  corpulence.  It 
seemed  rather  the  result  of  pious  inertia; 
of  a  mystical  and  unhygienic  staring 
into  space  for  many  years.  She  had  ap- 
parently not  pampered,  but  ignored,  her 
body.  The  flesh  had  achieved  a  bloodless 
and  unnoticed  victory.  When  she  spoke, 
it  was  in  a  small,  tinkling  voice,  not  shy, 
but  with  absent-minded  cadences.  Every 
one  paid  the  most  profound  attention. 

"I  have  called  you  here,  my  dear 
friends,  to  say  that  I  have  come  to  a 
definite  decision  as  to  the  disposal  of 
my  fortune."  She  paused  between  phrases, 
unembarrassed,  as  if,  merely,  she  had 
found  something  that  she  loved  to  stare 
at  in  the  distance,  beyond  their  hetero- 
geneous heads.  "I  have  destroyed  my 
will,  under  which  many  —  perhaps  most 
—  of  you  were  beneficiaries.  Some  of  you 
have  long  known  that  I  have  no  desire  to 
[8] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

co-operate  with  incorporated  institutions 
or  public  trust  funds.  I  am  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  forms  which  religion  takes 
among  us  "  —  there  was  something  breath- 
taking in  her  tacit  yoking  of  Walter  Leav- 
en's agnosticism  and  old  Miss  Bean's  re- 
vivalistic  tendencies;  and  one  or  two  of 
her  "friends"  looked  up  at  her,  though 
they  sat  very  still  -  "  though  I  would  not 
in  any  way  criticise  or  interfere.  What 

has  become  very  clear  to  me  is  this " 

As  if  quite  unconscious  of  the  tense 
minds  and  bodies  surrounding  her,  she 
stopped.  No  one  quite  dared  to  follow 
her  glance,  to  see  what  she  was  looking  at, 
there  beyond  them;  but  it  could  in  any 
case  have  been  nothing  more  remote, 
physically,  than  the  lace  curtains  falling 
heavily  the  length  of  the  drawing-room 
windows.  Outlying  fields  of  flesh  shook 
slightly  as  she  turned  or  moved,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  no  central  disturbance. 
[9] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

With  rare  absence  of  dramatic  sense,  she 
appeared  not  to  know  that  the  moment 
was  cruelly  psychologic  for  twoscore  hu- 
man beings.  At  last  she  came  back  to 
her  speech  with  a  sigh  that  agitated  her 
vast  bosom. 

"What  has  become  very  clear  to  me," 
she  resumed,  "is  that  any  gift  I  can  make 
to  my  friends  will  be  of  infinitely  more 
use  to  them  now  than  at  the  problematic 
future  period  of  my  death.  If  any  one  of 
you  needs  —  or  —  or  —  desires  —  money 
that  I  have  and  do  not  either  need  or  de- 
sire, I  cannot  see  why  I  should  withhold 
it  any  longer.  The  great  and  senseless 
burden  of  managing  a  property  like  mine 
—  though  it  is  not  so  large  at  the  present 
day  as  some  have  doubtless  thought  — 
would  scarcely  be  a  burden  at  all,  if 
shared  among  so  many.  I  have  no  nat- 
ural heirs,  and  you  who  are  gathered 
here  represent  what  I  should  call  the 
[  101 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

natural  people  for  me  to  unload  my 
responsibilities  upon.  I  have  used  my 
best  ability  in  choosing,  and  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  my  worldly  goods.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  that  I  have  reserved  enough 
to  pursue  my  own  life  in  self-respect.  I 
hope  you  will  agree  with  me  that  self- 
respect  does  not  need  much.  But  I  should 
not  like  to  burden  my  friends  with  the 
vision  of  me  as  a  beggar."  She  smiled 
softly.  "I  purpose  now,  to-day,  to  divide 
what  has  been  called  my  wealth  among 
you  here  present.  I  hope  no  one  will  give 
me  the  pain"  —  her  voice  had  a  pleading 
note  —  "of  disagreeing  with  my  judgment. 
It  would  be  a  real  pain  to  me.  So  long 
as  the  money  is  mine,  I  have,  perhaps,  a 
right  to  judge.  After  it  has  ceased  to  be 
mine,  my  connection  with  it,  for  praise  or 
blame,  will  of  course  utterly  have  ceased." 
Words  of  abstract  import  could  not  be 
less  didactically  spoken  than  were  Miss 
[  11] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

Wheaton's;  gentleness  could  not  go  far- 
ther compatibly  with  dignity.  Yet  even 
old  Miss  Bean,  who  was  wont  periodically 
to  ask  the  prayers  of  singing,  groaning, 
murmuring  congregations,  felt  resentfully 
that  she  was  being  preached  at.  The 
women  controlled  their  impatience  ac- 
cording to  their  several  codes  of  manners; 
the  men,  except  Walter  Leaven,  squirmed 
on  their  seats. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you,  each  one,  to 
give  me  a  few  moments  in  my  library. 
My  lawyer  is  there,  and  together  we  will 
inform  you  of  the  sum  to  be  transferred 
immediately  to  your  possession.  Any  one 
who  wishes  to  consult  my  lawyer  —  Mr. 
Reid  —  more  fully,  can  make  an  appoint- 
ment with  him  to-day  for  a  later  time. 
His  firm  is  prepared  to  execute  the  trans- 
fers, and  to  do  all  necessary  business  with 
the  greatest  possible  despatch  and  the 
least  inconvenience  to  you.  Of  course,  if 
[12] 


A   CHANGE    OF    AIR 
you  wish  to  consult  your  own  lawyers, 
you  are  at  perfect  liberty  to  do  so.  But 
as  Mr.  Reid  knows  my  affairs  in  detail, 
I  recommend  him  to  you. 

"I  have  made  an  alphabetical  list,  and 
shall  ask  you  to  meet  me  in  the  library 
in  that  order.  As  I  desire  now  only  to 
give  you  information,  it  wrill  not,  I  think, 
take  long.  I  purposely  selected  a  holiday 
for  these  informal  preliminaries.  The 
formalities  shall  be  put  through  in  the 
next  days,  at  your  convenience.  Before 
I  call  for  the  first  one  on  the  list,  may  I 
say  one  thing:  that  I  should  be  deeply 
disappointed  if  any  one  of  you  failed  to 
understand  my  motives  in  doing  this,  or 
refused  to  receive  my  gift?"  Her  gaze 
seemed  to  hover  round  Walter  Leaven's 
head  for  an  instant,  but  so  vaguely  that 
only  Walter  Leaven  himself  could  have 
known.  She  gave  no  other  sign  of  singling 
him  out.  "I  have  called  you  together 
[13] 


A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 
only  for  the  sake  of  saving  time.  Each 
one  of  you,  I  hope,  knows  by  this  time 
my  special  feeling  of  friendliness  for  him 
or  her  —  knows  that  I  do  not  in  any  way 
confound  him  with  others.  Many  of  you, 
of  course,  do  not  —  never  will  —  know 
each  other.  But  time  is  very  precious  in 
our  time-ridden  world.  I  am  leaving  the 
country  before  long.  I  do  not  wish  to  de- 
lay. Miss  Bean,  your  name  is  first  on 
the  list.  Will  you  please  come  up  to  the 
library  with  me  and  meet  Mr.  Reid?" 

Miss  Wheaton  made  her  way  slowly, 
a  little  uncertainly,  through  a  group 
dazed  by  much  swift  speculation.  Bessie 
John's  husband  and  the  man  who  shared 
his  Sheraton  bench  got  up  to  let  her 
through  the  door.  Miss  Bean  followed, 
drawing  her  faded  skirts  meticulously 
above  her  boot-tops,  as  though  she  were 
in  a  muddy  street.  Walter  Leaven's  face 
twitched  a  little,  as  he  glanced  side- 

[14] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

ways  at  Jim  Huntingdon,  now  frowning 
as  he  sprawled.   Leaven  was  still  sup- 
pressing the  desire  to  bolt.  Bessie  John 
was  crimson,  but  she  never  let  her  gaze 
wander  from   the  ivory  chessmen.   She 
did  not  even  look  at  her  husband.  Nearly 
all  of  them  were  trying  desperately  to 
recall    how    many    of    their    virtuous 
desires   they   had,   in   times   past,   per- 
mitted Miss  Wheaton  to  become  aware 
of.  Both  the  mannerly  and  the  manner- 
less were  worried:  the  former  lest  they 
should  have  played  the  game  of  decent 
reticence  too  well,  the  latter  lest  they 
should  have  played]  it  disgustingly  not 
at    all.    Little    Julie    Fort,    whose    fitch 
muff  had  rolled  under  Jim  Huntingdon's 
chair,   decided,  after  reflection,   that  it 
would  look  better  for  her  to  pick  it  up 
and   cherish   its   cheapness.   The  young 
giant  was  too  far  gone  in  some  revery 
of  his  own  to  help  her.  His  lips  were 
[  15] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

shaping,  inaudibly,  strange  names,  while 
his  closed  eyes  were  dizzily  contemplat- 
ing the  detail  of  an  expensive  kit. 

So  it  went,  while  the  room  slowly 
emptied  itself.  As  each  descended  from 
the  library,  the  shadowy  butler  led  him 
to  the  front  door  and  saw  that  its  black- 
walnut  panels  swung  noiselessly  back 
behind  him.  But  at  last  the  blue  No- 
vember twilight  had  absorbed  them  all 
—  all  except  Walter  Leaven,  whom  the 
butler,  with  a  murmured  word,  had  led 
to  the  dining-room.  Walter  Leaven  heard 
from  the  man  that  Miss  W'heaton  begged 
he  would  stay  and  presently  dine  with 
her;  and  while  he  waited  in  the  ugly 
panelled  room,  he  heard  the  shuffle  of 
chairs  in  the  drawing-room  as  the  ser- 
vants rearranged  them  after  the  singular 
festivity.  He  could  have  gone  back 
into  the  thinning  crowd,  but  he  did  not 
wish  to.  Even  after  old  Mrs.  Williston, 
[  161 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

the  last,  had  gone  up-stairs,  he  still 
ciung  to  the  official  privacy  of  the  dining- 
room.  Only  when  he  had  heard  Mr. 
Reid  go  out  of  the  house,  did  he  lift 
his  head  and  take  possession  of  himself. 
Then  he  came  out  into  the  hall  and 
met  his  hostess. 

At  dinner,  Miss  Wheaton  looked  to 
him  very  tired.  The  hanging-lamp  over 
the  table  made  a  single  Rembrandtesque 
pool  of  light  in  the  biggish  scene.  That 
illumination  showed  up  the  food  and 
dishes  like  a  Dutch  still-life.  Just  be- 
yond the  bright  centre  of  the  pool  Miss 
Wheaton's  face  hung  heavily  between 
glow  and  darkness.  It  looked  as  if  a  cyn- 
ical sculptor  had  clapped  on  handfuls  of 
plaster  and  left  them,  in  their  impotence, 
to  harden,  while  he  went  about  a  more 
beautiful  business.  Wan  and  gentle  and 
cruelly  fat,  she  faced  her  guest  across  the 
table,  as  sometimes — not  often — she  had 
I  17] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

done  before.  He  was  oppressed  by  the 
weariness  she  did  not  confess;  and  al- 
most immediately  after  dinner  he  left 
her.  Some  of  the  men,  going  away  that 
afternoon,  had  clicked  buoyant  heels  on 
the  sidewalk:  they  had  walked  like  men 
whose  limbs  have  been  washed  in  mi- 
raculous waters.  But  Walter  Leaven's 
step  was  a  little  heavier  than  usual  as 
he  sought  his  two  high-perched  rooms. 


[181 


II 

TIM  HUNTINGDON,  gazing  out  of 
**  Walter  Leaven's  western  windows, 
got  a  sketchy  view  of  some  hundreds  of 
unhappy  roofs.  Loft  buildings  of  the 
cheaper  sort  were  plenty;  so,  too,  were 
window-sills  that  seemed  to  sag  under 
the  untidy  weight  of  mattresses  and 
bedclothes.  It  hurt  him,  all  that  unpic- 
turesque  squalor;  hurt  him  chiefly  by 
the  sense  of  vicarious  confinement.  His 
was  a  roving  temper.  With  little  or  no 
aesthetic  sense,  he  disliked  having,  in 
spite  of  himself,  to  pronounce  on  either 
beauty  or  ugliness.  The  open  precisely 
suited  him.  A  picture-gallery  was  scarcely 
more  to  his  taste  than  a  slum.  He  liked 
personal  activity:  something  that  he 
could  do,  and  do  on  his  own.  He  hated 
[  19] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

having  either  to  praise  or  blame  the 
works  of  man.  Fortunately  for  him,  the 
planet  was  still  able  to  provide  him  with 
a  few  unravished  stretches. 

Yet  the  young  giant  had  a  conscience, 
and  his  conscience  had  brought  him  to 
Walter  Leaven's  door.  Walter  Leaven, 
obviously,  cared  as  much  for  the  careful 
hand  of  man  as  young  Jim  for  the  care- 
less hand  of  God:  not  an  object  in  his 
sitting-room  but  was  wrinkled  with  his- 
tory; and  the  vast  gestures  of  Nature 
could  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
meticulous  etching  of  his  face.  All  the 
same,  Walter  Leaven  was  the  only  one 
of  the  company  which,  a  week  before, 
had  gathered  in  Miss  Wheaton's  house, 
to  whom  Jim  Huntingdon  felt  he  could 
go.  The  two  men  had  barely  met  before 
that  day;  but  Jim  Huntingdon,  looking 
for  some  one  he  could  talk  to,  had  se- 
lected Leaven. 

[20] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  older  man 
at  last. 

Huntingdon  turned  from  his  staring. 
He  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  see  what 
it  was.  Only,  something  had  to  be  dis- 
cussed, with  somebody,  before  he  could 
get  off. 

"I  don't  know  any  of  those  people," 
he  began.  "I've  never  seen  Miss  Wheaton 
often.  I  don't  even  know  what  I  was 
doing  there  with  the  rest  of  you,  except 
that  she  knew  my  mother  once.  I  used 
to  see  her  a  lot  when  I  was  a  kid.  But, 
Lord,  that's  long  ago.  Only  —  well,  it 
amounts  to  this.  I  can't  cut  my  stick 
without  making  sure.  I've  at  least  spoken 
to  you  before,  and,  by  George,  I  don't 
believe  I've  even  spoken  to  most  of  the 
others.  Is  it  all  right  for  me  to  go 
ahead?" 

"Go  ahead?" 

"Yes.  What  is  all  this  extraordinary 
[211 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

idea  of  her  staking  us,  anyhow?  As  man 
to  man,  have  I  got  a  right  to  this  wind- 
fall? Or  is  she  crazy,  and  is  something 
going  to  happen?  The  lawyer  says  not, 
but  I  don't  know  anything  about 
lawyers." 

"I  think  she  explained  herself  suffi- 
ciently to  us  all  that  afternoon."  There 
was  a  discernible  bitterness  in  Leaven's 
tone. 

"I  don't  call  that  explaining.  I  never 
took  anything  from  a  woman  before.  I 
don't  know  if  it's  right.  I've  got  to  ask 
some  one  of  the  bunch,  and  the  rest 
were  no  good.  You've  got  to  tell  me." 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing  whatever." 

"Well,  I  can't  see  her.  I've  tried. 
She's  always  out  or  engaged.  Besides, 
it's  awfully  uncomfortable.  I've  taken 
the  money,  of  course,  but  I  can't  start 
off  without  knowing.  I'd  be  in  a  hell  of 
a  hole  if  I  got  ten  thousand  miles  away 
[22] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

and  then  had  to  refund.  Besides  —  why 
should  she  give  me  anything?" 

"You  will  have  to  answer  that  your- 
self." 

"Do  you  believe"  —  the  young  man 
twisted  uncomfortably  on  his  sofa  — 
"that  any  of  those  other  people  are  in 
my  queer  position?  Not  knowing  any 
more  than  a  dumb  animal  why  ?  If  I 
thought  that,  I'd  finish  up  my  business 
and  start." 

"I  am  quite  in  the  dark — quite  in 
the  dark."  Leaven  fiddled  with  a  bit  of 
enamel.  "But  I  honestly  think  you  may 
take  it  from  me,  as  an  old  friend  of  Cor- 
delia Wheaton's,  that  you're  safe.  You 
may  go  and  be  happy  in  your  own  pe- 
culiar way,  without  worrying.  That  is, 
if  -  'He  stopped. 

Miss  Wheaton's  beneficiaries  were  of 
many  stripes  and  colors;  they  were  to 
work  their  luck  into  a  score  of  different 
[23] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

patterns;  some  of  them  were  to  know 
each  other  well,  others  never  to  meet 
again.  Only  one  decision  would  they  all, 
as  by  a  single  gesture,  make:  not  one  of 
them  would  ever  tell  or  ask  another, 
"How  much?"  Imprisoned  together  in 
her  charity,  each  would,  to  the  end,  have 
that  little  private  cell  to  flee  to. 

"Oh,  I  can  be  happy,"  Huntingdon 
hastened  to  say,  "if  it's  all  right." 

"I  don't  like  to  take  any  responsibility 
in  the  matter,"  the  older  man  answered; 
"but  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should 
hesitate.  You  are  lucky,  I  think,  to  know 
what  you  want  to  do  with  your  wind- 
fall." 

Jim  Huntingdon  grinned  happily. 
"Don't  you?" 

"No,  I  don't."  There  was,  again,  bit- 
terness in  Leaven's  tone.  But  somehow 
all  the  bitterness  seemed  vicarious,  as  if 
he  were  complaining  for  a  friend. 
[24] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"Oh,  it's  easy  enough  to  spend 
money." 

"I  dare  say.  But  it  has  come  rather 
late  to  me.  I'm  used  to  my  life." 

;'You  can  always  buy  this  sort  of 
thing."  By  way  of  indication,  the  young 
giant's  fist  nearly  knocked  over  a  piece 
of  majolica. 

'Yes,  I  can  always  do  that."  Leaven 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  his  guest  to  go. 

"Well,  so  long."  Huntingdon  crossed 
to  the  door.  There  he  turned.  "I  sup- 
pose I'd  feel  better  about  it  if  I  knew 
what  she  wras  going  to  do.  Won't  she  be 
everlastingly  sorry  some  day?" 

:'You  attribute  to  me  a  familiarity 
with  Miss  Wheaton's  mind  that  I  do 
not  possess." 

Jim  Huntingdon  never  reacted  to  stiff- 
ness. He  merely  got  away  from  it  as 
quickly  as  possible.  So  he  turned  the 
knob  of  the  door.  "Impertinence  is  not 
[25] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

my  habit,"  he  assured  Leaven  gravely. 
"Only  I  wish  to  heaven  somebody  knew 
something.  But  as  there  doesn't  seem 
to  be  anything  I  can  do,  I'll  take  my 
passage  to-day.  I'd  have  been  a  lot  hap- 
pier, though,  if  some  one  could  have 
assured  me  that  that  poor  old  lady  was 
happy." 

Walter  Leaven  smiled  at  his  depart- 
ing guest.  "You  may  take  it  from  me 
that  she  thinks  she's  happy.  I  give  you 
my  word  on  that.  Good  luck  to  you.  I 
suppose  you  have  an  address?" 

"Oh,  yes.  It'll  probably  be  some  bank 
in  Shanghai.  Would  you  like  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  send  it  to  you.  Good-bye."  And 
his  host  heard  him  descend  the  stairs 
with  a  comfortable  Brobdingnagian 
stride. 

Left  to  himself,  Leaven  sank  back 
into  a  worn  and  rickety  chair.  The  bit- 
[26] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

terness  that  young  Huntingdon  had  ex- 
cited in  his  breast  now  took  control 
there,  and  his  fine,  hard,  weary  features 
showed  his  mood.  For  many  reasons  he 
had  hated  answering  the  young  ad- 
venturer's questions,  but  he  paid  Hunt- 
ingdon the  compliment  of  believing  him 
a  rare  case.  He  did  not,  in  his  mind's 
eye,  see  any  of  the  others  looking  askance 
at  their  luck.  Their  palms  would  be 
greedy  while  their  lips  were  scornful. 
He  was  rather  glad  that  he  had  asked 
for  Huntingdon's  address.  Shanghai,  to 
his  Europe-moulded  mind,  sounded  fan- 
tastic. Still,  undoubtedly,  there  was  a 
bank  there;  and  he  could  even  fancy 
Huntingdon,  fresh  from  all  the  places 
that  made  maps  absurd,  asking  an 
impassive  Chinaman  for  letters.  He  re- 
spected Huntingdon  for  his  scruples  be- 
cause they  were  akin  to  his  own.  He 
had  lulled  the  other's  scruples,  while  he 
[27] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

let  his  own  have  full  play  —  because  he 
felt,  with  such  passion  as  was  left  to 
him,  that  he  alone  had  a  right  to  them. 
It  was  late  in  the  day  for  Walter  Leaven 
to  be  jealous,  and  his  jealousy  was  of  an 
odd  and  faded  kind.  It  consisted  only  in 
wishing  to  be  alone  in  worrying  about 
Cordelia  Wheaton.  He  did  not  pretend, 
even  in  this  twilight  of  age  that  might 
well  make  their  two  landscapes  so  similar, 
to  understand  her.  But  he  liked  to  think 
that  he  alone  of  them  all  could  see  danger 
ahead  of  the  woman  he  had  loved.  Other 
people,  knowing  what  he  did,  might 
think  her  a  fool;  but  none  of  them  — 
save  him  —  would  regret  her  folly. 

Love  was  past;  but  he  remembered 
it,  as  he  remembered  the  Italy  of  his 
ardent  wanderings.  Rome  was  spoiled 
now,  people  told  him;  Cordelia  Wheaton 
had  certainly  become  a  figure  of  little 
charm.  Yet  he  wouldn't,  for  very  pride, 
[28] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

go  back  on  his  past.  In  self-respect  he 
must  maintain  that  the  only  emotions 
he  had  ever  had  had  been  justified. 
Italy  had  been  a  marvel;  Cordelia  had 
been  slim  and  sweet  and  noble.  Both  had 
been  reft  from  him,  and  now  he  had  no 
resource  but  to  believe  that,  in  his  day, 
he  had  loved  all  too  wisely.  Life  had 
been  a  beast  to  him,  but  he  would  lie 
to  life  brazenly  on  his  very  death-bed, 
pretending  that  what  he  had  had  was 
something  crude  possession  could  hardly 
have  bettered.  He  could  see  life  go  out 
of  the  door,  a  disappointed  shrew.  That 
would  precisely  suit  him  and  the  narrow 
range  of  his  shrunk  emotions. 

Walter  Leaven  had  a  sense  of  humor. 
He  kept  it  by  him  like  some  very  ugly, 
very  convenient  object.  If  you  can 
imagine  a  connoisseur  finding  a  patent 
rocker  comfortable,  and  having  the  rare 
audacity  to  admit  it,  you  can  guess 
[29] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

Walter  Leaven's  attitude  to  his  sense  of 
humor.  He  sat  in  his  rocker  and  looked 
at  his  masterpieces.  At  first  it  had  been 
only  another  way  of  showing  deliberate 
disrespect  to  life;  but  eventually  he  had 
come  to  like  his  rocker.  ...  It  was  be- 
cause he  could  see  how  absurd  was 
Cordelia  Wheaton's  present  theory  of 
existence  that  he  worried  about  her. 

He  had,  all  these  last  years,  sus- 
pected that  Cordelia  was  making  a 
mystical  fool  of  herself,  but  she  had 
said  little  to  him,  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  had  seen  her.  Only  at  that  last 
dinner  she  had  shared  with  him  had 
she  let  him  have  it  straight  —  as  straight 
as  one  could  let  you  have  any  dim  non- 
sense of  the  sort.  He  didn't  know  where 
she  had  got  it:  she  didn't  tell  him.  But 
of  course  there  were  always  futile  sophis- 
tications ready  to  the  hand  of  the  rich. 
There  was  religion  in  her  impoverishing 
[30] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

herself,  but  it  was  a  religion  with  no 
aesthetic  value.  One  of  those  queer  things 
out  of  the  East,  bound  up  with  char- 
latans and  flatulent  illiteracy.  A  state 
of  mind  that  rejected  the  concretes  that 
would,  if  it  consented  to  look  at  it,  have 
deplored  the  Renaissance !  Cordelia  was 
by  way  of  denying  her  body,  and  the 
humanist  in  him  would  have  preferred 
cosmetics  and  masseuses.  Life,  wishing 
to  make  him  squirm  in  his  patent  rocker, 
had  shown  him  the  woman  he  had  loved 
turned  —  what  was  the  ridiculous  thing  ? 
-  Buddhist.  They  did  that  sort  of  thing, 
he  knew,  in  Boston;  but  they  did  it 
temporarily  -  -  they  didn't  burn  their 
boats.  It  didn't  go  beyond  vegetarianism 
and  housing  impostors  in  turbans.  He 
could  have  stood  it  as  a  fad;  but  Cor- 
delia had  already  disposed  of  her  for- 
tune; she  was  going  to  India,  or  Tibet, 
or  Ceylon,  or  some  such  place,  to  finish 
[31  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

her  days  contemplating  the  Infinite.  At 
least,  he  supposed  it  was  the  Infinite  — 
he  had  refused  to  listen  to  the  jargon. 
Cordelia  was  sweet,  was  dignified,  was 
reticent  about  it;  but  that  was  what  it 
amounted  to.  She  would  grow  fatter 
and  fatter  until  she  couldn't  move, 
until  she  was  just  a  mystic  stare  out  of 
a  heap  of  flesh.  And  all  the  time,  if  she 
could  only  have  seen  it  that  way,  there 
was  Rome:  a  great  hospital,  equipped 
to  receive  any  kind  of  case,  even  hers. 
That  was  all  he  knew,  and  he  knew  more 
than  any  one  else.  He  was  too  sore  to 
think  of  it  as  a  brave  gesture  on  her 
part;  and  he  knew  well  that  giving  your 
life  for  a  cause  does  not  prove  the  worth 
of  the  cause.  Cordelia  would  perish  for 
something  whose  sole  sense  was  to  make 
an  article  in  an  encyclopedia.  And  he, 
enriched,  must  watch  her  perish:  the 
woman  who  had  been  slim,  sweet,  and 
[32] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

noble,  and  whom  he  had  never  asked 
to  marry  him  for  reasons  she  was  per- 
fectly aware  of.  Walter  Leaven  "be- 
lieved" nothing;  but  he  could  have 
borne  a  bigotry  that  had  been  respon- 
sible for  Fra  Angelico.  When  he  came 
to  think  of  it,  the  absence  of  bigotry 
was  the  most  disgusting  thing  about 
Cordelia's  revelation. 

His  knowledge  of  her  religion  was 
sketchy,  but  his  sense  of  it  had  become 
vivid.  He  saw  it  as  something  too  vast 
and  vaporous  to  be  quite  decent.  It 
was  a  great  mist  reeking;  in  it  moved 
gods  of  prehistoric  countenance,  mop- 
ping and  mowing  with  mile-wide  grins. 
His  own  agnosticism  had  at  least  the 
cleanness  of  the  void.  Her  revelation 
had  nothing  to  say  to  humanity;  it 
denied  all  passion,  even  the  purest,  all 
codes,  even  the  noblest.  There  were  in 
it  none  of  those  choices  that  justify  the 
[33] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

soul.  Life,  any  life  —  snake  or  man  — 
it  held  indecent,  a  thing  to  be  got  rid 
of.  Their  saints  gazed  at  their  own  navels 
and  were  dumb.  Ugh ! 

No  wonder  he  had  been  unhappy 
when  he  left  her  house  on  that  mo- 
mentous evening.  All  Cordelia's  life  had 
been  a  tacit  refusal  of  his  unspoken 
offer  of  himself,  but  he  had  never  felt 
really  jilted  until  now.  And  it  was  too 
late  to  glorify  another  woman;  too  late, 
even,  to  fling  himself  ironically  into 
ignoble  adventures.  His  blood  was  thin, 
his  ardors  ran  low;  he  wanted  nothing, 
not  even  enough  disgust  to  shock  him 
back  into  his  illusions.  Only  that  morn- 
ing he  had  signed  a  new  lease  for  his 
two  inconvenient  rooms.  He  had  walked 
past  his  tailor's  three  times  before  de- 
ciding to  go  in  and  order  a  suit  he  sorely 
needed.  For  two  days  he  had  been  de- 
liberating over  having  a  telephone  in- 
[34] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

stalled.  He  thought  he  might  run  to 
that,  but  he  hesitated,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, to  make  so  lavish  a  gesture.  Per- 
haps Huntingdon's  visit  had  tinged  the 
air  with  venturesomeness.  At  all  events, 
half  an  hour  after  Huntingdon  had  left 
him,  Leaven  got  up,  put  on  his  over- 
coat, and  started  out  for  the  office  of  the 
telephone  company.  At  the  same  time 
he  resolved  inwardly  to  buy  another 
book  of  meal-tickets  at  his  dreary  board- 
ing-house. No  one  can  say  what  Walter 
Leaven  feared,  or  why;  but  he  crept 
further  into  his  familiar  frugality  as  if 
menaced  by  deadly  guns. 


[35] 


Ill 

ESSIE  JOHN  sat  on  a  step-ladder, 
mocking  her  florid  husband. 
'You  are  as  glad  as  I  am,  you  know 
you  are.  Haven't  we  always  wanted  to 
be  civilized?  And  aren't  we  doing  it 
discreetly?  Aren't  we  hanging  our  own 
pictures?  If  I  had  been  the  offspring 
of  frivolity  and  extravagance  that  you 
think  me,  wouldn't  I  have  paid  the 
people  from  Crantz's  to  do  it  all?  Am 
I  not  throwing  sops  all  the  time  to  Cer- 
berus? Have  I  urged  you  to  give  up 
your  work?  Did  I  set  up  a  butler  when 
I  was  sore  tempted?  Have  I  even  yet 
been  to  a  good  dressmaker?  Did  I  not 
say  to  you  in  an  Old  Testament  voice: 
*  Philip,  Philip,  they  must  be  real  an- 
tiques, against  the  day  when  we  may 
[36] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

have  to  sell  them'?  Did  I  not  curb  my 
taste  for  Louis  Quinze  and  Chinese 
Chippendale,  and  sally  into  lone  and 
dangerous  farmhouses,  buying  the  four- 
post  bed  from  under  the  hired  man  and 
the  decrepit  mahogany  from  under  the 
boiled  dinner  ?  Have  I  not  been  as  clever 
as  a  mendicant  and  as  shrinking  as  a 
criminal?  Colonial  I  have  forced  my- 
self to  be  —  though  it's  not  worthy  of 
me;  but  Braun  photographs  upon  my 
walls  I  will  not  have.  There  is  a  point 
beyond  which  rolling  in  the  mud  is  not 
Christian  humility  but  sheer  swinish- 
ness. And,  above  all,  Philip  of  my  heart, 
have  I  ever  for  one  moment,  since  luck 
came,  gone  back  on  my  manners?  'The 
Lord  our  God  is  a  jealous  God';  and  I 
have  every  day  tried  to  prove  to  Him 
that  luck  is  good  for  my  soul.  I  haven't 
wrestled  in  prayer  —  it  isn't  my  way  — 
but  I  have  meant  to  show  that  adversity 
[37] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

isn't  the  best  and  only  teacher.  Ad- 
versity, you  know,  always  spoke  Greek, 
as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  I  was  getting 
near  the  point  of  collapse.  I  didn't  so 
much  mind  eating  off  fumed  oak  and 
sitting  in  Mission  chairs  —  though  they 
were  very  uncomfortable  —  as  I  did  pre- 
tending to  a  lot  of  people  that  I  liked 
fumed  oak  and  Mission  chairs,  and 
chafing-dishes,  and  the  brassware  of  Rus- 
sian Jews.  Yet  I  could  never  say,  even 
to  the  Orpingtons,  that  I  hated  it  all. 
I  somehow  couldn't.  It's  one  thing  you 
don't  do.  Yes,  I  was  in  revolt.  I  wouldn't 
even  be  cheerful,  and  go  in  for  wicker. 
That  would  have  been  to  accept  our 
fate,  finally;  worse  still,  to  pronounce 
ourselves  optimists. 

"No,    Philip    dear,    I    have    behaved 

very  well.  I  have  been  very  grave  about 

it  —  almost  as  grave  as  you.  I  haven't 

danced  up  and  down,  and  I  have  made 

[38] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

more  concessions  to  your  conscience  and 
your  gloom  than  you  will  ever  know 
about.  If  I  can't  help  thanking  God 
that  I  shall  never  again  have  to  sleep 
in  a  white  enamelled  bed,  do  you  blame 
me?  And  you  can't  say  I  have  gone  in 
for  anything  chic.  I  don't  particularly 
like  Colonial  furniture:  I  have  a  soul 
above  it.  But  I  realize  that  it's  respect- 
able, that  one  needn't  be  ashamed  of 
it,  that  it's  not  ostentatious;  and  you 
can't  say  that  our  drawing-room  mightn't 
have  been  a  New  England  sea-captain's 
front  parlor.  It's  built  round  Miss 
Wheaton's  chessmen.  That  was  why  I 
asked  for  them  instead  of  something 
more  valuable.  Given  the  chessmen,  I 
could  reconstruct.  Did  you  know  that 
old  Miss  Bean  lugged  off  the  what- 
not? Do  you  think  I  ought  to  have 
wrested  it  from  her,  and  built  round 
that?" 

[39] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

Philip  John,  fair,  handsome,  his  grave 
boy's  face  verging  on  heaviness,  looked 
up  at  his  wife. 

"I  know  you  hated  it  all,"  he  said 
simply.  "I  don't  blame  you.  I've  no 
vocation  for  knock-down  furniture,  my- 
self. I'm  glad,  too  —  of  course  I  am. 
I  suppose  it's  superstitious  of  me,  but 
I  somehow  thought  we'd  better  go  slow. 
The  price  of  the  engravings  nearly 
knocked  me  over.  We  can  afford  them, 
but  ought  we  to?  Isn't  it  sinking  too 
much  of  our  principal  in  personal  prop- 
erty?" 

"But  after  this  we  can  live  on  our 
blessed  income,  my  precious.  Oh,  you'll 
see.  I  shall  count  every  penny  of  your 
salary,  just  the  same.  Can  do.  Believe 
me." 

Philip  John  sat  down  in  a  comfortable 
wing-chair  and  gazed  upward  at  his 
wife. 

[40] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Is  it  all  going  just  for  food  and 
clothes  and  things?" 

Bessie  John  leaned  her  chin  in  her 
hand  and  spoke  in  a  deep,  low,  chanting 
voice.  "He  wants  to  give  to  the  poor; 
he  wants  to  take  a  pew  in  church;  he 
wants  to  insure  his  life;  he  wants  to  chip 
bits  off  his  salary  and  run  by  stealth  to 
the  savings-bank  with  them;  he  wants 
to  work  overtime  at  the  office,  and  to 
put  antimacassars  on  all  the  chairs;  he 
wants  never,  never,  never  to  take  a 
taxi,  but  always  to  ride  in  the  sub- 
way ! "  She  sang  the  last  phrase  softly, 
ending  on  a  minor  third. 

"My  dear  girl,  you  know  perfectly 
well  what  I  mean.  And  it  wouldn't  hurt 
us  to  give  something  to  the  poor." 

Bessie  John  came  down  from  the 
step-ladder  and  stood  by  the  chimney- 
piece,  with  folded  arms. 

"Pilly-Winky,  it  would  hurt  me.  I've 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

done  all  I  care  to  do  for  the  poor.  I've 
been  poor.  You  can't  do  more  for  them 
than  to  live  as  they  do.  Even  settlement- 
workers  get  a  day  off  now  and  then.  It's 
many  a  year  since  I've  had  a  day  off. 
No,  Pilly-Winky,  not  the  poor.  It  all 
goes  into  administration  expenses,  any- 
how. I'm  always  willing  to  give  candy 
to  a  baby,  but  I  draw  the  line  at  sub- 
scriptions to  anything.  Any  personal 
charity  I  feel  like  expending  is  going  to 
be  expended,  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
on  you.  Understand?  You're  the  most 
deserving  person  I  know." 

She  crossed  to  him  and  put  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  gripping  him  hard. 
Her  voice  matched  her  gesture.  "Nor 
yet  a  pew  in  church,  my  dear.  I  praise 
God  in  my  own  way.  I'm  not  going  to 
set  up  as  a  churchgoer  just  because  I 
can  have  clothes  that  the  usher  would 
be  polite  to.  When  I  think  of  it,  the 

[42] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

thing  I  admired  most  about  Miss  Whea- 
ton  was  her  absence  of  cant.  She  wasn't 
dying  to  support  religion.  She  preferred 
to  support  individuals  that  she  pitied, 
liked,  or  respected.  She  disposed  of  her 
money  quietly,  decently.  If  she  had 
wanted  it  used  for  indiscriminate  charity, 
she  would  have  given  it  that  way, 
wouldn't  she?  Or  if  she  had  wanted  to 
hold  up  the  hands  of  the  church?  She 
preferred  to  give  you  and  me  a  chance 
to  be  almost  as  nice  as  we  really  are. 
And  I  honor  her  for  it." 

"So  do  I,  my  dear."  His  gravity 
matched  her  soft  vehemence.  "But  she 
at  least  didn't  think  it  right  to  use  all 
her  wealth  in  pampering  herself.  She 
parted  with  it.  She  gave  it  —  you  may 
say  —  to  us." 

"And  that  is  where  it  is  going  to 
stay."  Bessie  John  gave  him  a  last  little 
shake,  then  sat  down  facing  him.  She 
[43] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

crossed  her  slim  hands  behind  her  head 
and  swung  her  left  foot. 

"  Pilly-Winky,  I  honestly  wouldn't 
criticise  if  you  really  had  a  passionate 
desire  to  support  some  particular  good 
work.  Tuberculosis  hospitals,  vacations 
for  working  girls,  lost  dogs,  or  a  Keeley 
cure  for  hoboes.  What  I  object  to  is 
your  uncomfortable  sense  that  because 
you  have  something,  you  must  part 
with  it;  because  you  have  a  little  more, 
you  must  straightway  have  a  little  less. 
That's  mere  atavism.  Your  ancestors 
got  in  the  way  of  making  themselves 
uncomfortable  for  the  glory  of  God. 
Then,  in  the  sixties,  they  made  my  an- 
cestors uncomfortable  for  the  glory  of 
God.  They  were  horrid  people,  your 
ancestors,  from  the  start.  Comes  of 
reading  Hebrew  instead  of  Greek,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  But  I  am  not  going 
to  squat  on  Plymouth  Rock  because  I 
[44] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

married  you,  darling.  If  Colonial  furni- 
ture is  going  to  remind  you  of  your  an- 
cestors at  every  turn,  I'll  sell  it  to-mor- 
row and  be  chic.  Really  chic.  I  could  do 
it  beautifully,  and  you'd  mind  it  aw- 
fully. So  be  good." 

"I'll  be  good.  But " 

She  threw  up  her  hands,  then  passed 
them  with  a  firm,  rhythmic  gesture 
over  her  sleek,  dark  hair. 

"' But'  -  -nothing.  I  do  think  we 
might  leave  the  ducks  and  drakes  to 
other  people.  Miss  Wheaton's  money 
is  going  to  go  in  very  queer  ways.  Let 
us  be  conventional  and  decent  and  charm- 
ing. Let  us  soberly  show  ourselves  quiet, 
civilized,  old-fashioned  people.  In  the 
end,  I  fancy  we  shall  show  up  better 
than  any  of  the  others." 

"Can  you  be  old-fashioned?"  he 
laughed. 

"Can  I  not?  Look  at  this  room." 
[451 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"Oh,  that!" 

"It's  important.  I  made  it  with  my 
eyes  open.  It's  of  the  last  bourgeoisie; 
and  I  am  going  to  be  bourgeoise  with 
the  best.  I  am  going  to  do  my  duty  in 
that  state  of  life,  etc.  I  am  going  to  be 
exactly  what  I  should  have  been  if  I 
had  grown  up  in  the  house  just  as  it 
stands.  I  am  going  to  be  a  good  citizeness. 
And  I  am  going  to  practise  the  fine 
archaic  virtue  of  not  attempting  either 
to  shock  the  world  or  to  reform  it.  I've 
given  my  wild  imaginings  a  hypodermic. 
I  am  going  to  be  a  nice  little  vertebra 
in  the  backbone  of  the  nation;  a  happy 
country  with  no  history;  a  fine  old  Shef- 
field teapot;  a  traditional  American  ac- 
cording to  the  Indiana  school  of  nov- 
elists." 

"And  I?" 

"You  were  all  those  things  in  the  be- 
ginning. I  have  made  a  moral  choice. 
[46] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

Therefore  I  am  more  to  be  admired 
than  you." 

"Oh,  granted.  But  will  you  get  the 
admiration  ?  " 

"Irony  sits  ill  on  you,  Philip.  No,  I 
shall  not  get  it.  I  shall  only  sit  at  home 
and  deserve  it  in  vain.  But  in  the  long 
run  I  shall  be  seen  not  to  have  lost  my 
head  —  like  some  of  the  others." 

"What  others?" 

"Some  of  the  dear  old  madwoman's 
beneficiaries.  Most  of  them,  of  course, 
we  don't  know;  but  the  few  we  do,  seem 
to  have  lost  their  heads  already.  Do 
you  know  what  Julie  Fort  did?  Spent 
hundreds  of  dollars  on  clothes  and 
sailed  for  Europe  —  there  to  pursue  her 
career." 

"She  paints,  doesn't  she?" 

"There  used  always  to  be  paint  on 
her  fingers,  so  I  suppose  she  does.  The 
last  time  I  saw  her,  all  the  paint  was 
[47] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

on  her  face.  Yes,  she  paints.  .  .  .  But 
I  don't  think  art  is  going  to  be  her 
career." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Philip  John 
looked  shocked. 

"I  mean  that  Julie  Fort  has  read  and 
talked  nothing  but  poison  for  five  years. 
I  think,  Philip  of  my  soul,  that  she  is 
destined  to  queer  adventures.  In  fact,  I 
think  she  has  gone  to  look  for  them. 
Now  you  can't  say  my  idea  isn't  better 
than  that." 

"Oh,  come,  Bess." 

"My  dear,  I  don't  know.  But  I  have 
heard  Julie  talk.  And  I  have  seen  some 
of  her  crowd.  She's  the  adventuress 
type,  that's  all.  Some  very  queer  peo- 
ple, I  fancy,  will  share  her  fortune  with 
her." 

"Couldn't  you  have  talked  to  her?" 

"Do  you  imagine  I  care  what  Julie 
does?  I  am  interested  only  in  proving 
[48J 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

to  you  that  I'm  not  the  least  decent  of 
that  miserable  company  which  hung  on 
Miss  Wheaton's  words.  No,  not  exclud- 
ing old  Mrs.  Williston,  whom  I  used  to 
call  'Aunt  Blanche/  and  never  will 
again." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  she  has  enough  real  nieces 
to  domineer  over,  now." 

"Aren't  you  hard  on  her?  I  thought 
she  was  rather  a  poor  dear." 

"She  is  not  a  poor  dear;  she  is  a  rich 
dear.  For  years  she  has  lived  with  a 
married  niece  and  the  married  niece's 
large  family.  Now  the  married  niece  is 
living  with  her.  It's  the  same  house, 
the  same  large  family;  but  Mrs.  Willis- 
ton  controls  them  all.  'Aunt  Blanche' 
used  to  have  a  hall  bedroom  on  the  third 
floor;  'Mrs.  Williston'  has  the  second- 
story  front,  and  the  nephew-in-law  goes 
out  of  an  evening  —  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
[49] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

I  suppose.  I  don't  think  she  would  let 
him  set  up  a  club." 

"Aren't  you  uncharitable?" 

"I  am  not.  I  went  there  yesterday  to 
pay  her  my  last  call.  She  was  magnifi- 
cent in  bugles  and  real  lace,  and  as  I 
entered  the  throne-room  I  heard  her 
ask  a  quite  good-looking  great-nephew 
if  he  couldn't  give  up  cigarettes  for 
Christ.  I  heard  him  say  he  would  —  but 
he  also  said  'damn'  in  the  hall.  'Damn' 
is  no  word  for  a  boy  of  sixteen  to  use, 
and  I  slipped  him  a  dollar  as  I  went  in." 

"Cigarettes  won't  do  him  any  good 
at  that  age." 

"Of  course  not.  But  could  I  have  him 
jeopardizing  the  prospects  of  the  entire 
family  by  exploding  then  and  there? 
And  a  dollar's  worth  won't  hurt  his 
health  permanently.  If  she  thinks  he 
has  given  up  cigarettes  for  Christ,  she 
may  let  him  alone  for  a  little  while  - 
[50] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

give  him  time  to  get  his  second  wind. 
I  had  no  time  to  talk  to  him." 

"Did  he  take  the  money?" 

"He  fairly  lapped  it  out  of  my  hand. 
I've  known  him  a  long  time.  He  waited 
for  me  on  the  street-corner  and  told 
me  that  they  have  to  play  games  with 
the  old  horror  and  cheat  themselves  so 
as  to  let  her  win.  No,  I  don't  regret  the 
dollar.  If  I  managed  to  give  any  one  in 
that  household  any  happiness  that  that 
old  hypocrite  can't  blight,  it  was  all  to 
the  good.  Next  best  to  that  was  making 
her  miserable.  That  wasn't  easy  —  she's 
so  puffed  up  with  prideful  godliness  - 
but  I  did  my  modest  best.  I  think  we 
shall  cut  each  other  hereafter." 

"Was   that   in   your   newly   adopted 
tradition?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  to  give  my  an- 
cestors some  show.  Otherwise,  I'd  break 
down.  This  woman  is  a  mighty  influence 
[51  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

for  evil.  She  radiates  unclean  piety. 
After  I  had  made  it  quite  clear  that 
I  wouldn't  subscribe  to  any  of  her  funds 
for  putting  strait-jackets  on  the  wrong 
people,  she  turned  to  vilifying  Miss 
Wheaton.  Said  she  had  taken  to  some 
outlandish  religion  —  was  no  better  than 
a  heathen.  I  suggested  to  Mrs.  Willis- 
ton  that  she  use  some  of  Miss  Wheaton's 
money  for  a  special  missionary  to  re- 
convert Miss  Wheaton.  But  I  honestly 
think  she  prefers  to  consider  her  irre- 
claimable. I  even  asked  if  she  wouldn't 
find  the  sempstress  —  Miss  Bean,  you 
know  —  an  invaluable  coadjutor  in  her 
good  works,  now  that  the  old  thing  is 
a  leisured  woman." 

"You  seem  to  have  done  the  thing 
up  brown.  What  did  she  do?" 

"My  dear"-  -Bessie  John's  voice 
shook  —  "Mrs.  Williston  is  a  snob,  I 
fear.  And  I  regret  to  say  that  old  Miss 
[521 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

Bean  has  joined  the  Holy  Rollers  —  if 
you  know  what  they  are.  It  didn't  go 
at  all.  So  I  did.  And  now  the  step-ladder 
must  be  removed,  and  we  must  dress 
for  dinner." 

The  two  got  up  simultaneously;  Mrs. 
John's  account  had  brought  laughter 
into  the  air,  yet  Philip  John's  laughter 
was  nervous  and  quickly  spent.  His 
wife,  seeing  it,  came  over  to  him  and 
rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

'You  don't  trust  me  to  turn  into  the 
right  kind  of  person?" 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  but  did 
not  meet  her  eyes.  "You've  always  been 
precisely  the  right  kind  of  person,  Bess. 
I  suppose  it's  all  right." 

'You  may  be  sure  it's  all  right."  She 
laid  her  cheek  against  his  arm  and 
looked  steadily  away  from  him  at  a 
dark  old  highboy.  "Nothing  can  be 
wrong  while  I  admire  you  as  I  do.  And 
[53] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  am  per- 
mitting myself  to  hope  —  to  hope,  do 
you  understand,  Philip  ?-- that  we  may 
have  sons  in  your  likeness.  That  is  an- 
other difference  that  Miss  Wheaton  is 
going  to  make." 

Philip  John  stood  tongue-tied  an  in- 
stant in  the  twilight.  Then  he  crushed 
his  wife  to  him,  looming  above  her, 
enfolding  her,  her  slim  form  vanishing 
utterly  in  his  embrace.  Still  tongue-tied, 
he  let  her  go,  caught  up  the  step-ladder 
like  a  negligible  thing,  and  carried  it 
out  of  the  room. 

Bessie  John  walked  to  the  big  window 
and  looked  out  into  the  gloom.  "I  might 
have  known  I  needn't  worry,"  she 
whispered  to  herself.  "I  had  the  ace 
of  trumps  all  the  time.  I  might  panel 
the  nursery  with  teak,  so  long  as  it  was 
a  nursery.  There's  not  a  man  in  the 
world,  I  believe,  who  won't  fall  for  that. 
[54] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

And  it's  not  a  defeat  for  me,  either" 
-  her  words  came  so  low  that  she  could 
scarcely  hear  them  herself  -  -"for  I  chose 
Colonial,  and  it  goes,  heaven  knows, 
with  that!" 

Like  any  other  verbalist,  Bessie  John 
felt  better  when  she  had  summed  a 
thing  up,  even  under  her  breath  and  in 
solitude.  She  passed  quickly  out  of  the 
room  by  another  door,  and  up-stairs. 


[55] 


IV 

JULIE  FORT  looked  athwart  pink 
*^  curtains  at  the  slanting  rain.  She 
was  disappointed  in  the  weather,  and 
the  pink  silk  cried  out  upon  her  hopes. 
She  had  wanted  a  day  as  cheaply  cheer- 
ful as  the  curtains;  a  day  with  no  im- 
plications or  responsibilities,  a  day  that 
led  you  nowhere,  that  bore  no  relation 
to  fact.  Of  the  heady  cup  of  the  times, 
Julie  had  drunk  only  the  froth;  the  real 
juice  of  the  grape  had  never  reached 
her  lips.  She  had,  despite  Bessie  John's 
opinion,  no  ideas;  but  her  nostrils  and 
her  palate  had  been  stung  by  the  effer- 
vescence of  the  wine.  Her  attitude  to 
life  was  the  by-product  of  all  that  fer- 
ment. Julie  had  demanded  social  re- 
generation (along  startling  lines)  as 
[56] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

loudly  as  any  of  the  sisterhood  to  which 
she  had,  somewhat  ignorantly,  belonged; 
though  for  their  violent  logic  she  cared 
little,  and  of  it  understood  nothing. 
The  "crowd"  suffered  her  because  she 
was  pretty,  was  good-tempered,  was 
on  her  own,  was  clever  with  her  brush. 
Most  of  them  never  knew  that  she  was 
drifting  morbidly.  When  the  other  girls 
demanded  the  ballot,  Julie  demanded 
it,  too;  but  what  she  really  wanted  was 
a  chance  to  do  a  lot  of  things  her  mother 
would  have  died  of  her  doing,  without 
paying  the  price.  She  was  by  no  means 
vicious:  she  merely  hated  the  sense  of 
bonds.  She  had  absolutely  no  power 
of  discerning  essentials,  and  her  charac- 
teristic demonstration  against  conserva- 
tism would  probably  have  been  to  smoke 
a  cigarette  in  church.  It  certainly  would 
have  had  no  more  sense  than  that.  She 
read  all  the  young  English  novelists, 

r  57 1 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

and  gathered  from  them  that  lust  is 
more  than  half  of  love.  Bernard  Shaw 
would  have  been  pained,  though  prob- 
ably not  surprised,  to  know  what  she 
inferred  from  some  of  his  best  para- 
doxes. She  knew  that  the  world  was 
vastly  different  from  the  world  of  gentle 
conceptions  out  of  which,  five  years 
before,  her  mother,  Cordelia  Wheaton's 
girlhood  friend,  had  opportunely  faded. 
It  was  a  world  in  which  you  could  kick 
your  heels  and  be  respected  for  it.  Her 
group  had  good  hygienic  reasons  for 
kicking  your  heels:  it  was  the  best 
exercise  possible  for  the  body  politic. 
Julie  kept  under  cover  of  those  reasons 
—  which  she  never  understood  —  and 
kicked  hers  ecstatically.  Most  of  her 
friends  railed  at  bonds  of  any  sort,  aus- 
terely, on  principle,  without  desire.  Julie 
objected  to  bonds  precisely  as  she  ob- 
jected to  stays,  which  she  never  wore. 
[58] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

It  is  a  question  whether  her  "crowd" 
would  have  put  up  with  the  brainless 
youth  of  her  if  she  had  not  had  the  un- 
canny gift  of  caricature.  Women  seldom 
make  good  caricaturists.  It  was  as  un- 
natural, as  masculine  of  her,  as  it  would 
have  been  to  be  a  good  mechanic.  More- 
over, the  gift  suggests  brains,  a  sense  of 
humor,  convictions  —  all  sorts  of  things 
that  Julie  had  not.  She  simply  knew 
like  a  shot  what  could  be  done  with  the 
line.  She  saw  the  implicit  grotesqueness 
of  all  faces,  and  her  hand  never  went 
back  on  her. 

When  Miss  Wheaton,  for  the  sake  of 
lavendered  memories,  enriched  Julie 
Fort,  the  girl  gave  out  to  her  friends 
that  she  was  going  to  Paris.  No  one,  of 
course,  had  a  word  to  say.  People  who 
paint  or  draw  always  go  to  Paris  if  they 
can.  Her  friends  were  as  conventional 
about  that  as  the  generation  before 
[59] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

them.  They  feasted  Julie,  and  Julie 
feasted  them  —  talking  very  little,  but 
sketching  them  with  her  wicked  pencil 
while  they  ate  and  drank  and  laughed. 
The  sketches  were  preserved  in  almost 
every  case;  though  Paul  Rennert,  slightly 
drunk,  made  a  solemn  pilgrimage,  after 
the  party  broke  up,  to  the  East  River, 
and  flung  his  portrait  into  the  muddy 
water.  Paul  cared  nothing  for  Julie's 
gift,  though  he  had  the  sense  to  be  in- 
sulted by  what  she  had  done  with  his 
face,  but  he  took  Julie  herself  very  se- 
riously. So  did  Andre  Henkel;  and  he 
has  Julie's  portrait  of  him  to  this  day, 
framed  in  his  study.  Both  men  wanted 
her:  in  such  different  ways  that  it  is 
hard  to  use  the  same  verb  to  express 
it.  Andre  has  got  on  since  those  days, 
making  his  mark:  witness  the  walls  on 
which  the  smudged  caricature  hangs. 
But  Julie  could  not  foresee  Andre,  or 
[60] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

wait  through  the  long  cantos  for  his 
success  in  the  twentieth  book.  Andre 
himself  saw  early  that  she  moved  in 
anapaests,  and  would  be  a  fragment 
finishing  in  suggestive  asterisks.  Miss 
Wheaton,  moving  among  her  memories, 
had  foreseen  nothing.  Bessie  John  had 
come  nearer  it  than  any  one  else,  but 
even  Bessie  was  handicapped  by  her 
new  vision  of  life.  Mentally  she  cast 
Julie  from  her  before  she  took  time  to 
understand.  Julie  went  on  the  scrap- 
heap  along  with  the  Mission  furniture. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Julie  that  she 
never,  for  an  instant,  contemplated  in- 
vesting her  little  capital,  and  living  on 
the  income  thereof.  She  planned,  instead, 
to  use  up  her  principal  slowly,  but  re- 
lentlessly. Anything  might  come  round 
the  corner;  she  had  a  gift;  meanwhile 
she  was  avid  of  the  present.  Life  for  a 
little  should  be  as  gay  as  she  could  make 
[61  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

it.  She  would  work;  but  just  enough  to 
give  zest  to  her  fun.  Julie  went  at  the 
matter  of  living,  those  first  months  in 
Paris,  in  the  corrupted  temper  of  the 
aesthete.  Most  of  the  young  people  she 
frequented  worked  without  a  sure  knowl- 
edge of  where  next  year's  (if  not  next 
month's)  rent  would  come  from.  Julie 
was  grateful  to  be  lifted  above  them  in 
this  matter.  Sordid  suspense  had  no 
place  among  the  condiments  she  craved. 
She  preserved  her  faculty  of  fear  for 
finer  uses,  all  emotional.  Julie  intended 
to  encounter  Life  in  Paris.  She  was 
young  enough  to  spell  it  with  a  capital 
letter,  and  reckless  enough  to  greet  the 
Rubicon  —  that  small  and  muddy  stream 
—  with  a  cheer. 

To-day  she  stamped  her  foot  at  the 

rain.  Gold  in  her  purse  had  made  her 

impatient  of  delays.  She  had  bought,  in 

six  months,  so  many  hitherto  inacces- 

[62] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

sible  things,  it  irritated  her  that  she 
could  not  buy  sunlight.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  with  Paul  Rennert  when 
he  came.  Together  they  had  exhausted 
all  the  resources  of  her  studio.  There 
was  not  a  new  thing  to  do  in  it,  not  a 
new  place  to  sit,  not  a  new  festivity  to 
invent.  The  romance  of  Paul's  having 
followed  her  across  the  Atlantic  had 
grown  a  little  stale.  She  intended  to  use 
him  again  and  yet  again;  she  did  not 
intend  to  drop  him  until  she  had  squeezed 
him  dry.  Julie's  mind  was  not  large, 
and,  as  I  have  said,  her  mental  mo- 
tions were  jerky.  A  woman  who  at  any 
given  moment  held  more  of  the  future 
in  her  hands  would  have  looked  beyond 
Paul  Rennert,  if  only  because  he  had 
belonged  with  her  in  New  York;  would 
have  prepared,  slowly,  another  drama 
for  herself,  finding  totally  new  char- 
acters for  the  totally  different  scene. 
[63] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

All  that  Julie  had  accomplished  was  to 
cease  to  be  afraid  of  him.  In  New  York 
he  had  always  frightened  her.  Now  she 
had  far  more  money  than  he,  though 
Paul  had  been  the  moneyed  one  of  their 
indigent  group.  Once  or  twice,  here  in 
Paris,  she  had  lent  him  a  hundred  francs. 
She  did  not  know  how  it  would  be,  be- 
tween them,  in  the  end.  But  she  must 
get  through  with  Paul  before  she  went 
on.  And  of  course  some  time  she  must 
get  back  to  work.  She  had  given  away, 
as  mementos,  things  she  could  have 
sold;  liking  the  praise,  liking  the  pose 
of  the  rich  amateur.  But  what  should 
she  do  with  Paul  to-day?  He  could  not 
take  her  to  Meudon  as  they  had  planned. 
The  evening  could  be  managed;  but  the 
people  they  knew  worked  in  the  day- 
time. None  was  such  an  idler  as  Julie. 
Delicious  not  to  be  mounting  the  stairs 
of  editorial  offices;  delicious  to  wear  ex- 
[64] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

pensive  clothes.  But  what  —  oh,  dear 
Lord  in  heaven  —  what  to  do  ?  Even 
if  she  had  felt  like  sending  Paul  away 
and  working  on  the  rue  de  la  Paix 
series,  she  could  not,  for  sheer  spite, 
have  so  acquiesced  in  the  weather.  Julie 
would  have  stuck  out  her  tongue  in  all 
seriousness  at  Atropos.  And  Paul  Ren- 
nert  was  late.  He  should  —  she  rather 
felt  —  have  been  bemoaning  the  rain 
on  her  stairs  an  hour  before  she  con- 
descended to  get  up. 

Rennert  came  at  last.  He  gave  three 
knocks,  and  Julie  opened  to  him.  To 
spite  the  weather  (for  she  wasted  time 
on  these  impotent  gestures)  she  had 
dressed  for  the  storm,  and  Rennert  found 
homespun  where  he  had  expected  to 
be  confronted  with  a  kimono. 

"Ready  for  Meudon?"  he  grinned. 

"Damn  Meudon!"  Julie  swore,  of 
course:  they  all  did.  But  she  did  it  con- 
[65] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

scientiously  and  badly,  and  Rennert  dis- 
couraged it. 

"Don't!"  he  sighed.  "Would  a  ciga- 
rette help?" 

"No,"  said  Julie.  "I've  smoked  too 
long  and  too  much,  as  you  know.  They're 
a  habit;  they're  not  a  comfort.  I'm  so 
bored  I  could  scream  —  and  this  is  the 
dullest  town !" 

Paul  Rennert  wrinkled  his  dark  face. 
"Depends  —  I  like  it,  in  fair  weather 
or  foul.  But  of  course  you  - 

"Well?  I?  Go  on." 

"Oh,  nothing,  my  child."  Seated  on 
a  couch,  he  cleaned  a  pipe  elaborately. 
"Only  you  know  you  are  neither  one 
thing  nor  the  other.  How  can  you  ex- 
pect to  be  happy?" 

"Meaning-    -?" 

"Well,  meaning  this."  He  sucked  at 
his  pipe  exhaustively,  ana  finally  lighted 
it.  "You  don't  work.  And  you  don't 
166] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

play.    You    muddle    along.    You    don't 
know  what  you  want." 

"I  do." 

"No,  you  don't.  You  couldn't  tell  me 
before  I  counted  ten.  You  see,  you  don't 
really  care  about  your  work.  You've 
no  morals,  of  any  sort." 

"I  am  still  bored."  Julie  regarded 
him  ominously. 

"Sorry.  But  it's  true,  so  you  oughtn't 
to  be  bored.  You  could  do  stunning 
things,  if  you'd  put  your  nose  to  the 
grindstone.  But  you  never  will.  You'll 
dash  off  little  things  that  make  us  weep 
with  joy,  but  you  won't  tackle  anything 
that  would  mean  trouble.  So  we  have 
to  count  you  out  on  the  serious  side. 
You  haven't  got  any  long  hopes  and 
vast  thoughts  —  not  one." 

"My  work's  my  own  affair.  That 
rue  de  la  Paix  series  is  going  to  be  rip- 
ping." 

[67] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"You've  said  so  for  three  months." 

"That's  my  affair,"  she  repeated 
sharply.  "But  a  series  of  satiric  sketches, 
however  good,  can't  be  the  whole  of 
life.  I  want  to  be  amused.  I  want  to  be 
interested.  I  want  to  live." 

"Well  "  -  Paul  Rennert  looked  away 
from  her  at  an  Empire  desk  he  had 
helped  her  to  buy  -  "you  aren't  in 
love  with  any  one.  And  except  for  love 
or  work,  you  can't  expect  to  be  amused." 

"I  would  rather  die  than  marry," 
said  Julie  listlessly. 

"Who  said  *  marry'?  Do  you  see  any 
black  silk  stock  round  my  neck  ?  I  mean, 
you've  never  had  a  big  emotion.  All  very 
pretty  and  sweet  of  you,  but  what  do  you 
expect?  You  can't  be  inside  and  outside 
at  the  same  time.  I  do  my  best,  but  on 
my  word,  Julie,  you're  hard  to  suit." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  your  best?" 

"Stage-managing  this  children's  pan- 
[68J 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

tomime  you  call  your  life.  How  you 
expect  me  to  get  results  — !  You  seem 
to  think  that  if  you  live  without  a 
chaperon,  you  have  fulfilled  all  the  re- 
quirements of  drama." 

"You  mean  I  ought  to  get  up  an  af- 
fair with  some  one?  Like  Aline  and  her 
little  Russian?  Thanks.  When  I  see  a 
man  I  like  well  enough " 

"You  see  plenty  of  men  you  like  well 
enough,"  Rennert  replied  coolly.  "But 
you  don't  want  to.  I  can't  make  a  grand 
passion  drop  on  you  out  of  the  blue, 
can  I?"  He  watched  her  profile  very 
closely  as  he  spoke.  "Quite  right,  doubt- 
less. Only,  if  you  won't  give  the  passion 
that's  in  you  either  to  work  or  to  any 
human  relation,  why  blame  me  —  or 
Paris?  If  I  were  you,  I'd  go  home  and 
get  brought  out  in  society." 

"Thank  you.  But,  somehow,  it  doesn't 
even  amuse  me  to  be  insulted." 
[69] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"I  don't  insult  you  unless  for  your 
good.  You've  got  to  buck  up,  Julie." 

"Would  you  guarantee  me  success  if 
I  took  up  with  one  of  these  men?'* 

Paul  Rennert  rose  and  drummed  on 
the  window-pane  with  his  fingers.  He 
spoke  only  when  he  had  achieved  the 
correct  shade  of  weariness. 

"Oh,  Julie,  you  have  a  rotten  mind." 

Julie  Fort  flushed  at  this.  "I  face 
facts.  I  call  a  spade  a 

"You  call  a  spade  a  muck-rake.  You 
don't  seem  to  think  of  other  conceivable 
uses  for  it.  As  for  facing  facts  —  you've 
never  faced  one  in  your  silly  life."  Paul 
Rennert  had  faced  facts  —  perhaps  not 
always  in  the  most  admirable  temper  - 
but  to  that  extent  he  felt  himself  better 
than  Julie. 

"I've  had  hard  times."  She  was  plain- 
tive. 

"Yes  —  you  have.  But  you've  never 

[  70] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

been  really  hungry.  You've  only  eaten 
bad  food  instead  of  good." 

"Is  it  your  idea  that  I  must  starve 
my  way  to  a  soul?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Only,  so  far  as  I  see, 
you  don't  get  any  real  fun  out  of  your 
money  —  any  more  than  if  you  were  a 
fashionable  nobody.  You  haven't  bought 
a  single  real  thing  with  it  yet." 

"Clothes  are  real."  Julie  passed  her 
hand  over  the  rough  surface  of  her 
skirt. 

Paul  Rennert  brought  his  fist  down 
upon  the  sill.  "No,  they're  not!  Not 
the  way  you  use  them.  You  stop  at 
making  yourself  pretty." 

"Isn't  that  good  in  itself  ?" 

"As  far  as  it  goes.  But  you  don't 
think,  do  you,  that  a  pretty  woman 
was  made  to  be  looked  at  from  a  dis- 
tance ?  If  it  never  goes  farther  than  that, 
she  hasn't  accomplished  anything." 
[71  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Yet  you  say  I  have  a  rotten 
mind!" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  your  being  shocked 
if  you  were  shocked,  you  know,"  he 
threw  in.  "But  of  all  the  amorphous, 
anomalous  creatures —  Why  do  we 
bother  with  you,  I  wonder?  Because 
you're  pretty,  and  because  the  big  cou- 
turiere  in  your  rue  de  la  Paix  series  is 
as  good  as  Hogarth."  He  began  irrele- 
vantly to  whistle. 

The  taste  of  the  sugar  on  her  tongue 
was  presently  sweet  to  her,  as  he  had 
known  it  would  be. 

"I  might  stay  at  home  and  work  on 
the  Mormon  millionaire."  But  there 
was  no  muscle  of  intention  in  her  flabby 
phrase. 

"Then  I'll  get  along.  Sorry  about 
Meudon.  Some  other  day."  He  gathered 
himself  for  departure. 

"Stop!"  Julie  rested  her  clever  hands 
[72] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

on  her  slender  hips  and  faced  him.  "I 
shall  scream  if  you  leave  me  here  with 
nothing  to  do." 

"You'll  scream  if  I  stay." 

"Yes,  I  shall." 

"I'm  going  to  get  out.  You'd  b?  tire- 
some, screaming." 

"Oh"  -  she  turned  from  him  —  "isn't 
there  anything  we  can  do  ?  Anything  we 
can  buy  ?  " 

Paul  Rennert  laughed  grimly.  "Not 
with  your  money." 

She  might  have  retorted;  but  it  was 
of  the  essence  of  her  feeling  for  him  that 
she  did  not,  in  any  vulgar  way.  "What's 
the  matter  with  my  money?  If  you  had 
known  old  Cordelia  Wheaton,  you'd 
know  it  wasn't  tainted." 

"It's  tainted  by  the  way  you  use  it." 

"In  heaven's  name,  what  have  I 
done  with  it?" 

''That's  just  it.  You  haven't  done 
[  73  1 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

anything.  What's  money  for,  except  to 
mock  the  stars  with?" 

"Will  money  buy  weather?" 

"Yes  —  if  it's  expended  to  that  end." 

Julie  looked  at  Rennert  in  sheer  wonder. 
She  was  sometimes  slow  in  the  uptake.  He 
returned  her  gaze  very  steadily  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  turned  away  when  he  saw  that 
his  meaning  was  penetrating  her  brain. 

"Paris  —  Lyon  —  Mediterranee,"  said 
Julie  very  slowly.  Then  she,  too,  turned 
away. 

"Well"  — Paul  Rennert  shrugged  gal- 
lically  -  "what's  money  for?  You  can't 
buy  weather  at  Cartier's;  but  you  can 
go  where  the  weather  suits  you.  That's 
mocking  the  stars,  if  you  like." 

Julie  Fort  was  silent. 

"Why  does  it  shock  you?"  he  asked, 
after  an  interval.  "Nothing  could  be 
more  conventional  than  going  to  the 
Riviera  when  Paris  is  dreary." 

[74] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"And  you  call  that  mocking  the 
stars?" 

Hands  in  his  pockets,  head  tilted 
back,  he  looked  at  her. 

"As  near  it  as  you'll  ever  get  —  with 
your  ideas.  Sportier,  anyhow,  than  stick- 
ing on  where  you're  bored.  It's  a  ges- 
ture, at  least." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  ideas  ?  " 
"Everything  I've  already  told  you." 
She  liked  him  very  much:  better  than 
any  of  the  new  people;  better  than  any 
of  the  future  acquaintances  she  —  not 
very  clearly  —  foresaw.  It  spoke  for  the 
conventionality  in  Julie  which  Rennert 
taunted  her  with,  that  she  liked  him 
the  better  because  he  reeked  of  "home." 
She  liked  him,  indeed,  well  enough  for 
anything.  His  cool,  dark  face,  his  breadth 
of  shoulder  and  slimness  of  waist,  his 
easy  insolence,  which  had  no  taint  of 
mere  male  condescension:  all  these  spoke 
[75] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

to  her  nerves  —  nerves  that  in  Julie 
and  her  kind  were  the  modern  substitute 
for  sentiment. 

"My  dear  Paul,  you  seem  to  think 
I  ought  to  throw  my  bonnet  over  the 
windmill." 

"My  dear  Julie,  there  are  no  bonnets 
any  more,  and  no  windmills." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Julie  replied 
loyally.  For  the  young  of  our  day  run 
mad  over  formulse,  and  Paul  Rennert 
had  just  enunciated  a  pet  formula  of 
their  "crowd."  Not  sex,  but  the  formula, 
is  the  modern  Mephistopheles.  It  is 
borne  in  upon  the  intelligent  young 
that  they  must  have  the  courage  of 
their  emotions,  in  spite  of  everything 
-in  spite,  even,  of  not  having  the 
emotions.  "But,"  she  went  on,  "there's 
no  point  even  in  doing  that  —  what- 
ever you  call  it  —  unless  you  happen 
to  want  to,  is  there?" 
[76] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world.  No 
point  in  doing  anything  unless  you  want 
to  —  if  you're  free.  It's  beastly  hard  on 
the  people  who  don't  want  anything, 
though,  isn't  it?  That's  why  I'm  so 
sorry  for  you.  You  can't  seem  to  get 
up  a  desire  of  respectable  size.  Nor  will 
you  live  in  the  moment.  You  look  before 
and  after  and  pine  for  what  is  not.  You're 
about  two-litre  capacity  with  one-litre 
contents.  I  don't  see  any  way  out  of 
it.  You  won't  use  your  beauty"  —  Julie 
pricked  up  an  ear:  he  had  never  called 
it  beauty  before  —  "y°u  won't  use  your 
talent.  You're  bored  with  almost  every- 
thing, chiefly  the  weather.  Well:  I  ad- 
vise you  to  get  rid  of  the  weather  in  the 
only  way  known  to  man.  And  you  won't 
even  do  that.  You  are  a  trial,  Julie,  and 
no  man  who  wasn't  crazy  about  you 
would  stand  it  for  a  moment.  Even  I 
am  almost  fed  up  with  it.  Good-bye." 
[77] 


am  al 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  farewell. 
"What  in  the  world,  my  dear  Paul, 
have  you  done  with  your  life,  if  it  comes 
to  that?  Have  you  a  supreme  desire? 
And  if  you  have,  have  you  set  to  work 
to  achieve  it?  You've  always  been  a 
drifter,  so  far  as  I  know." 

:'Yes,  but  I  haven't  money  —  at 
least  not  enough  to  mock  the  stars 
with." 

"It  doesn't  take  money  to  work  or 
to  love  —  those  wonderful  things  you 
were  recommending  to  me." 

"Oh,  doesn't  it?  ...  But  I  do  the 
other  thing.  I  live  in  the  day.  And  in- 
cidentally I  have  given  some  happiness. 
Don't  worry  about  me,  my  dear." 

One  of  his  sentences  brought  a  flush 
to  Julie  Fort's  cheek.  Yes,  she  liked 
him  very  much. 

"We  can  at  least  go  and  get  our  d6- 
jeuner"  she  said,  when  the  flush  had 
[78] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

cooled.  "It's  high  time,  the  way  we've 
been  quarrelling  here.  Wait  a  bit." 

Julie  disappeared  into  her  bedroom. 
Paul  Rennert  listened  to  the  rattle  of 
silver  things,  the  tinkle  of  crystal  bottles, 
the  swish  of  garments,  while  he  waited. 
Presently,  in  an  interval  of  silence,  he 
crossed  the  studio  to  the  curtained  door. 
"I  say,  Julie,"  he  called;  "let  me  see 
the  flamingoes.  I  never  have,  since  we 
chose  them  in  the  shop." 

"Oh"  -  her  voice  sounded  preoc- 
cupied. "All  right,  wait  a  minute.  The 
bed  isn't  made  yet  —  and  it  needs  sun- 
light for  the  flamingoes;  but  I'll  rake  up 
the  fire  ..."  The  voice  trailed  off. 

In  a  moment,  Julie's  hat  appeared 
round  the  edge  of  the  curtain.  "Come 
along,  then."  She  was  ready  for  the 
street,  and  was  pulling  on  her  gloves. 

Paul  Rennert  pushed  aside  the  cur- 
tain and  stepped  into  the  bedroom.  He 
[79] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

surveyed  its  small  extent,  noting  every 
detail.  Finally  he  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed  joyously.  "I  say,  I  had 
no  idea  how  funny  they'd  be  —  those 
creatures.  Don't  you  lie  in  bed  and 
shriek  every  morning  when  you  wake 
up?"  He  knelt  down  beside  the  bed, 
which  Julie  had  hastily  covered  with 
a  flame-colored  quilt;  laid  his  head  on 
a  pillow  and  stared  around  three  walls 
at  the  frieze.  The  flamingoes  were  funny, 
marching  round  the  small  square  room, 
above  the  white  dado,  in  every  con- 
ceivable attitude  of  self -consciousness. 
The  designer  had  insulted  each  individual 
flamingo  in  a  different  way,  taking  from 
them  all  morality  and  leaving  them  only 
their  unimpeachable  color.  There  was 
not  a  single  repeat.  It  was  a  gorgeous 
and  sly  procession.  Paul  Rennert,  from 
his  uncomfortable  position,  gazed,  rapt. 
"I've  named  them  all."  Julie  laughed, 
[80] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

herself,  from  the  door.  "Come  on,  Paul, 
I'm  hungry." 

Rennert  got  up  and  followed  her  out 
of  the  room,  stopping  an  instant  to  pat 
one  flamingo.  "Aline  has  doves,"  he 
remarked,  in  the  studio.  "Stupid  as 
can  be.  But  Aline  is  a  fool." 

"I  thought  she  was  a  sensible  woman 
-  not  like  me."  Julie's  hand  was  on 
the  door-latch,  but  she  turned  back  to 
utter  her  retort. 

"Oh,  that  —  yes.  But  Aline's  not  up 
to  you  otherwise.  Doves!  You  can  al- 
most hear  them  coo.  ...  I  say,  it's 
raining  black  cats  with  white  tails.  I'll 
go  call  a  taxi.  You  wait  here.  And  by 
the  way,  Julie,  when  we've  had  some 
food,  there's  something  important  I  want 
to  tell  you.  Don't  let  me  forget."  He 
bolted  out,  to  fetch  the  taxi. 

'You  like  sweet  white  wine,  I  know 
you  do,"  Paul  Rennert  complained,  half 
[81  ] 


A   CHANGE    OF    AIR 

an  hour  later.  "And  I  can't  afford  two 
kinds.  But  one  can't  drink  water.  You 
are  a  nuisance,  Julie."  He  gave  the 
order  with  a  wry  face. 

"I'll  pay  for  my  own,  and  you  can 
drink  something  else,  thanks.  We'll  go 
Dutch,  anyhow." 

Rennert  put  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  clasped  his  hands.  "Julie,  I  wouldn't 
marry  you  for  the  sake  of  possessing 
Aphrodite  en  secondes  noces.  You  would 
drive  me  out  of  my  mind.  Why  do  you 
behave  like  two  shop-girls  at  Childs'? 
I'll  pay  as  long  as  I've  got  any  money, 
and  when  I  haven't,  you  may  pay.  But 
what  you  call  'Dutch'  is  the  last  limit. 
It  takes  all  the  fun  out  of  it.  It's  like 
keeping  household  accounts  in  a  greasy 
little  book.  What's  the  good  of  a  meal 
when  you're  doing  fractions  all  the  time  ? 
I'd  rather  drink  sea- water,  if  neces- 
sary!" 

[82] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

Apart  from  this  sulky  instant,  they 
breakfasted  gayly.  But  as  Julie  was 
lighting  Paul's  final  cigarette  for  him,  she 
asked  soberly:  "What  was  the  important 
thing  you  had  to  say  to  me?" 

"Oh,  that!  Well,  Julie,  you  know 
your  sense  of  color  isn't  up  to  your  feel- 
ing for  line,  don't  you?  I've  often  told 
you  that,  haven't  I?  You  won't  be  in- 
sulted ? "  He  seemed  anxious. 

"Yes,  but  --  There's  no  color  to  speak 
of  in  this  homespun,  surely." 

"Bother  the  homespun.  It's  the  pei- 
gnoir over  the  chair  —  chez  vous,  you 
know.  That  pink,  with  the  flamingoes. 
Green,  Julie,  you  should  have  had  green. 
I  don't  care  how  many  pink  ones  you 
have  in  general,  but  it  makes  me  quite 
sick  to  think  of  your  wearing  pink  among 
the  flamingoes.  WTiite  would  be  best, 
but  I  suppose  that  isn't  practical."  He 
sighed.  "You're  no  good  at  anything, 
[83] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

ultimately  and  finally,  are  you,  dear  - 
with  all  your  money  ?  But  do  get  a  green 
one  to  please  me."  His  eyes  roamed  and 
grew  absent;   he  bowed   conventionally 
to  some  one  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

Julie  did  not  answer.  They  got  up 
and  left  the  restaurant. 

"Where  are  you  going?  Do  you  want 
a  cab?" 

;'Yes,  please."  Julie's  voice  was  crisp. 
"I'm  doing  some  errands.  You  might 
come  at  tea-time.  I  know  you  hate  it, 
but  I'll  give  you  coffee.  You've  no  en- 
gagements, of  course." 

"Of  course  not.  To-day  was  Meudon." 

"Be  sure  to  come.  And  don't  turn 
up  with  a  crowd.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
If  you  see  Aline,  you  might  tell  her 
how  nice  the  flamingoes  are.  She  thinks 
I  don't  know  anything  about  decora- 
tion." 

"Shall  I  make  a  point  of  it?" 
[841 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Don't  make  a  point  of  anything  — 
ever.  For  God's  sake!" 

And  Julie  stepped  into  the  cab,  having 
for  once  succeeded  in  being  cryptic  for 
Paul  Rennert. 


[85] 


'TpHE  rain  had  turned  to  a  tepid  driz- 
•*•  zle  when  Rennert,  later  in  the 
same  day,  arrived  at  Julie's  studio.  Mist 
lay  on  his  overcoat  like  a  fine  mould. 
He  entered,  after  his  three  knocks,  with- 
out waiting  for  Julie  to  answer.  Once  in- 
side the  studio,  he  heard  her  moving 
about  in  the  next  room,  and  whistled 
a  bar  of  "La  ci  darem'  la  mano." 

"Oh,  Paul?  All  right.  I'll  be  out 
soon."  Her  voice  was  preoccupied. 

"Why  didn't  you  build  a  fire?" 

"Too  busy"  —  and  then  silence. 

"I'll  build  it,  then.  But  you  invited 
me,  if  you  remember." 

No  answer  came,  this  time,  and  Ren- 
nert, disposing  of  hat  and  coat,  set  to 
work  on  the  fire. 

[86] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Shall  I  boil  the  kettle?"  he  asked 
finally. 

Julie's  head  was  thrust  out  from  be- 
hind the  curtain.  "Oh,  you  said  you 
wanted  some  coffee,  didn't  you?  Well, 
then,  make  it.  I'll  be  out  for  some  tea, 
presently.  Why  did  you  make  such  a 
big  fire?  I'm  going  out  this  evening." 

Paul  Rennert  whistled  —  not  Mozart, 
this  time.  "Well,  of  all  the  nerve!  You 
asked  me  to  come.  You  rather  made  a 
point  of  it.  And  I'm  going  out,  too,  this 
evening.  Make  a  note  of  that,  young 
lady." 

"Where?"  The  question  cracked  out 
like  a  shot. 

Paul  looked  at  Julie's  blond  head  — 
all  of  her  that  had  yet  appeared. 
"Where?  Oh,  I  don't  mind  telling  you. 
Aline's  Russian.  'Hans  Breitmann  gif 
a  barty.'  Is  that  your  engagement, 
too?" 

[87] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

'They  didn't  ask  me.  I  wonder  why." 
Julie  was  invisible  again  in  her  bed- 
room. 

Rennert  busied  himself  about  the 
coffee  things.  "Well,  if  you  ask  me,  I 
think  I  know.  But  I'm  not  sure  I  shall 
tell  you." 

"All  right.  You  can  tell  me  pres- 
ently." 

And  silence  fell.  Obscure  noises  from 
within  showed  that  Julie  was  really 
busy,  though  they  were  not  more  ex- 
plicit than  that.  Rennert,  in  the  studio, 
wrinkled  his  brows  and  stared  hard  at 
the  little  kettle  on  the  hob.  He  was 
busy,  too,  in  utter  dumbness,  wonder- 
ing whether  or  not  it  would  be  good 
tactics  to  tell  Julie  what  he  knew.  If 
she  would  only  always  be  stupid  or  al- 
ways clever!  But  she  had  bewildering 
alternations.  Not  that  he  cared,  except 
for  tactical  reasons.  For  a  year  he  had 
[88] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

meant  to  have  her  to  himself,  some 
time.  He  could  have  had  her  long  since, 
if  she  had  been  either  clever  or  stupid. 
The  deuce  of  it  was  that  she  was  always 
tacking.  And  of  late  he  had  probably 
been  dancing  a  too  constant  attendance. 
He  would  cut  and  run  if  she  held  out 
too  long.  It  was  no  part  of  his  philosophy 
-  and  he  had  one,  a  masterpiece  of 
fluency --to  want  anything  in  vain. 
He  managed  his  wants,  on  the  whole, 
cleverly.  Rennert  groaned  slightly  to 
himself.  The  fact  was  that  he  wanted 
her  hard:  that  she  had  stirred  his  pas- 
sion; that  there  was  something  in  Julie 
Fort  no  other  woman  seemed,  at  the 
moment,  to  have.  He  couldn't  sub- 
stitute, he  could  only  go.  And  of  course 
he  did  not  want  to  go. 

Julie  came  out  into  the  studio  at  that 
moment.  She  had  heard  the  groan,  and 
asked  him  at  once  what  the  matter  was. 
[89] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"The  kettle  won't  boil.  And  I  had 
expected  to  find  coffee  waiting.  What 
have  you  been  doing  with  yourself? 
I  haven't  seen  that  rig  since  the  days 
in  New  York  when  you  lived  with  Too  tie 
Beauregard  and  used  to  work." 

The  "rig"  was  a  glorified  pinafore  of 
peacock  blue  —  very  faded,  very  spotted, 
and  singularly  becoming  to  the  girl's 
blond  irregularity  of  type.  Its  long, 
simple  sweep  of  line  and  color  seemed 
to  smooth  out  her  overtraced  and  over- 
fretted  features.  Julie  was  always  better 
without  complications  of  millinery. 

"I've  been  doing  things,"  she  an- 
swered vaguely. 

"Umph!  The  coffee's  ready,  now. 
If  you  want  tea,  I'll  boil  the  kettle 
again." 

"Yes,  please."  She  pursed  her  lips 
and  seemed  preoccupied;  then  took  a 
cigarette  and  crossed  her  knees  neg- 
[90] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

ligently,  breathing  out  her  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  cigarette  smoke. 

"Why  wasn't  I  asked  to  the  party?" 

"Petriloff  thinks  you're  a  bad  ex- 
ample to  Aline."  Somewhere  in  the  in- 
terval he  had  decided  to  tell  her. 

"I?  To  Aline?  The  little  rotter!  Do 
explain  to  me,  Paul.  And  I  think  you 
might  have  stayed  away  yourself,  in 
that  case  —  if  Petriloff  is  giving  out  his 
disgusting  opinions." 

"I  was  going  to  consult  you  —  at 
least  I  think  I  was."  The  aroma  of  the 
coffee  spread  itself  domestically  between 
them,  and  both  unconsciously  relaxed 
into  more  comfortable  attitudes.  "Any- 
how, of  course  I  won't  go  if  you'd  rather 
not.  I  had  half  an  idea  it  might  amuse 
you  to  hear  about  it  afterwards.  They've 
got  a  little  rip  of  a  Hungarian  gypsy  — 
sweepings,  my  dear:  a  little  devil  off 
the  dust-heap  —  coming  in  to  dance 
[91  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

afterwards.  And  with  that  kind  of  crowd, 
she's  sure  to  be  one  of  them  before  they 
break  up.  I  think  you're  well  out  of  it. 
She  shouldn't  drink  champagne  out  of 
my  glass.  Petriloff's  blowing  himself, 
you  see.  Aline  wanted  you,  by  the  way, 
and  so  did  some  of  the  rest  of  the  bunch. 
Wanted  you  to  draw  the  gypsy:  damn 
her  with  your  precious  paw.  But  the 
Slav  wouldn't  stand  for  it.  Miss  Chad- 
wick  will  have  to  do  her  conscientious 
best." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Miss 
Chadwick  is  going?" 

"She's  a  serious  woman,  my  dear. 
You're  not." 

"But  if  Miss  Chadwick  can  stand 
the  gypsy  creature  - 

'You  are  dull,  Julie."  Rennert  sighed. 
"Don't  you  see?  Miss  Chadwick  is 
nothing  but  a  pair  of  bi-focals  and  a 
gift  for  taking  life  visually.  She  not  only 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

doesn't  believe  in  the  fourth  dimension; 
she  doesn't  even  believe  in  the  third. 
Thickness  is  merely  something  she  can 
suggest  with  a  brush.  People  haven't 
really  got  it,  you  know.  .  .  .  But  no- 
body could  say  you  were  impersonal, 
Julie,  could  they,  now?" 

Rennert  had  his  voice  well  under 
control;  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  stark 
hunger  must  be  audible  in  his  modula- 
tions. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me?"  reit- 
erated Julie.  She  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten her  original  preoccupation;  she 
was  really  interested  in  the  prohibition 
of  Aline's  lover. 

"  You're  a  Puritanic  idler." 

"But  Miss  Chadwick " 

"Keeps  more  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments than  you  do,  but  she  works." 

"Is  he  afraid  I'll  induce  Aline  to  be 
frivolous  ?  " 

[93] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"Can't  you  take  both  ends  of  it?  The 
point  is  that  you  neither  work  nor  play. 
So  you  don't  get  admitted  at  either 
gate.  This  crowd  doesn't  approve.  They 
might  let  a  slacker  like  you  in,  for  her 
charm;  but  when  you  proceed  to  be 
shocked,  it's  too  much." 

"Have  I  ever  proceeded  to  be 
shocked?" 

"Not  verbally,  oh,  no.  But  you  per- 
sist in  taking  a  different  line.  It's  the 
old  rhyme: 

What  are  you  good  for,  anyway? 
Not  fit  to  eat,  and  wouldn't  play. 

And  as  your  wealth  is  dazzling,  you 
just  might  produce  an  effect.  Miss  Chad- 
wick,  of  course,  couldn't  produce  any. 
Don't  bother  your  head  about  it.  You're 
worth  the  whole  boiling  —  though  of 
course  you  can't  keep  it  up  forever. 
Have  some  more  tea?" 
[94] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"Thanks."  Julie  drank  the  entire  cup 
before  either  spoke  again. 

"What  was  the  thing  you  wanted  to 
talk  to  me  about?"  Rennert  asked, 
when  she  had  set  her  cup  down.  "For- 
get about  the  party.  I  don't  think  I 
shall  go,  myself.  Too  darned  dull." 

"Something  very  important,  wasn't 
it?"  She  behaved  for  a  moment  as  if 
she  had  forgotten.  But  she  got  up  and 
walked  to  the  window,  then  walked 
back;  showing  by  her  nervousness  that 
she  had  by  no  means  forgotten.  He  did 
not  answer  her;  he  leaned  back  in  his 
armchair,  his  eyes  kindling  faintly  in 
the  twilight. 

Julie  came  finally  and  stood  before 
him,  her  hands  on  her  hips.  "I  can't  stand 
the  weather.  So  I  am  taking  your  ad- 
vice. I'm  leaving  to-night." 

"Oh!"  Every  muscle  in  Rennert's 
body  urged  him  to  move,  to  rise;  but 
[95] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

he  sat  perfectly  still,  defying  his  mus- 
cles. 

"Eight  o'clock  from  the  Gare  de 
Lyon.  Riviera  express.  Are  you  coming 
to  see  me  off?" 

Paul  Rennert  did  not  rise,  though 
the  effort  not  to  brought  little  drops  of 
sweat  to  his  forehead,  beneath  his  smooth 
dark  hair. 

"Oh,  I  think  not,"  he  said  lightly. 
"There'll  be  a  hundred  porters  for  that 
train.  If  you're  really  leaving  me,  I'd 
better  go  to  the  party,  hadn't  I?" 

"If  you  prefer  it." 

"Prefer  it  —  I  say,  Julie,  you're  not 

human.   You  go  off  —  and   quite  right 

-  to  sit  in  an  orange  grove  and  look  at 

the   Mediterranean,   and   you   want   to 

accent  your  good  luck  by  watching  me, 

shivering  and  forsaken,  in  that  beastly 

station,  while  your  gorgeous  train  pulls 

out.  Haven't  you  a  drop  of  human  kind- 

[96] 


"  I  can't  Maud  tin-  weather.      So  I  am  taking  your  advice. 
I'm  leaving  to-night." 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

ness?  If  you  had,  you'd  want  uie  to  be 
quite  drunk  by  7  P.  M.  I  don't  blarne  you 
for  going,  but  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  have  such  a  mediaeval  taste  for 
rubbing  it  in.  I  don't  know  whether  I 
shall  go  to  the  party  or  not.  But  I 
do  know  that  with  you  tucked  up  in 
the  train  de  luxe  I  shall  do  what  I 
damn  please  —  and  you  ought  to  be 
willing." 

Julie  did  not  retort.  She  simply  stared 
at  him  questioningly,  gravely,  a  little 
sadly. 

:'You  wouldn't  think  of  joining  me?" 
she  asked  at  last. 

"You  jolly  well  know  "  —  his  voice 
had  escaped  control:  it  had  a  frankly 
nervous  edge  —  "I'd  go  like  a  shot  if 
I  had  the  money.  If  it  were  the  first  of 
the  month,  I'd  go  anyhow,  and  starve 
until  quarter-day.  But  it's  late  in  the 
quarter  —  and  meanwhile  I've  been 
[  97  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

existing.  You  ask  questions  like  a  debu- 
tante's." 

"I  have  money." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I'm 
not  your  Pomeranian." 

Julie  ignored  this.  "I  even  have  two 
tickets." 

Paul  Rennert  got  up  at  last,  with 
one  clean  spring.  "What  are  you  talk- 
ing about,  Julie?"  His  voice  was  still 
low. 

"Well,  we  couldn't  go  to  Meudon, 
could  we?  And  if  I  couldn't  stand  the 
weather,  how  could  you?" 

Rennert's  eyes  glittered  above  her, 
but  he  did  not  touch  her.  "You  know 
a  long  sight  more  about  human  beings 
than  you  let  on,  Julie.  How  can  I  .go 
off  with  you  on  your  money?" 

She  turned  a  little  of  his  own  careful 
scorn  upon  him.  "If  I  had  known  you 
were  back  there,  Paul,  I  wouldn't  have 
[98] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

mentioned  it.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
it's  the  only  way  I'd  let  you  go." 

"Every  one  knows  I've  no  money  now 
for  a  lark.  You'd  be  compromised." 

"One's  always  compromised,  in  such 
a  case.  What  has  the  money  to  do  with 
it?" 

"Oh,  I  might  go  —  for  a  lark  —  if  I 
had  the  cash.  People  might  be  brought 
to  see  that.  But  if  you  take  me,  there's 
only  one  interpretation." 

"Interpretations  don't  matter  —  only 
facts."  Her  voice  was  very  listless,  as 
she  gazed  into  the  fire. 

"But  apparently  you  still  refuse  to 
face  them."  His  voice  vibrated  signif- 
icantly in  her  ear.  But  he  did  not 
touch  her,  though  his  hands  were 
clenched. 

"How  you  talk;  how  you  talk,  Paul! 
When  I  go  the  limit,  I  go  it.  See  ?  I  don't 
have  to  name  a  fact  a  hundred  times 
[99] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

in  order  to  face  it."  Her  voice,  no  longer 
listless,  rose  in  feverish  excitement. 

He  clasped  her  then;  concentrated  in 
his  passion  as  he  had  been  in  his  self- 
control.  Finally  she  shook  herself  free  of 
his  embrace. 

;'  You'll  have  to  go  and  pack.  And  I 
must  finish.  Come  back  here.  We'll  get 
some  dinner  in  the  station."  And  trem- 
bling a  little,  visibly,  she  disappeared 
into  her  bedroom. 

Paul  Rennert  walked  the  floor  of  the 
studio,  with  stealthy,  catlike  steps,  for 
full  five  minutes.  Then  he  shouted  at 
Julie's  door.  "Julie,  come  out,  for  God's 
sake !  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

"If  you  talk  any  more,  I  shall  change 
my  mind.  I  can't  stand  it,  I  tell  you.  I 
don't  want  to  discuss  this  thing.  If  you 
weren't  a  fool,  you'd  see  it."  But  she  ap- 
peared, flushed  and  nervous,  in  the  door- 
way. He  faced  her  across  the  big  room. 
[100] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Take  my  advice,  kiddy.  Stay  here 
and  finish  the  rue  de  la  Paix  series.  Then 
we'll  talk.  ...  I  can  get  back  some 
money  on  those  tickets  for  you." 

But  Julie  Fort,  since  Paul  Rennert 
had  kissed  her,  was  a  changed  being. 
The  formula,  once  arid  philosophy,  had 
become  a  glowing  gospel.  She  could 
hardly  wait  to  reach  her  orange  grove 
above  the  blue  sea. 

"You'll  be  late.  And  if  you  are,  I 
swear  I'll  go  alone!"  Her  voice  was 
jubilant. 

Paul  Rennert  clattered  in  haste  down 
the  long  stairs  into  the  street.  "If  worse 
came  to  worst,"  he  muttered,  "I  sup- 
pose I  could  marry  her.  But  that  would 
be  the  end  of  all  things.  Oh,  well,  here 
goes  — "  He  shook  off  the  clammy 
thought,  and  plunged,  flushed  and  con- 
tent again,  out  into  the  lamplit  street. 

[  101] 


VI 

IV  /JR.  REID  sat  in  his  elaborate 
•L*-*-  office,  at  two  removes  from  the 
outer  world.  His  confidential  clerk,  Mr. 
Boomer,  was  made  to  inhabit  the  next 
room  but  one.  The  room  between  was 
pure  waste  space;  an  interval  of  empti- 
ness that  gave  Mr.  Reid  the  sense  of 
privacy  so  necessary  to  him.  Beyond 
the  clerk's  little  room,  the  business  of 
the  firm  was  allowed  to  go  on  accord- 
ing to  the  traditions  of  his  partners. 
Mr.  Reid  stipulated  only  for  the  empty 
room  between  himself  and  the  nearest 
possibility  of  noise.  It  held  a  table  and 
a  few  chairs;  sometimes,  by  Mr.  Reid's 
permission,  people  sat  there  waiting. 
But  nothing  necessary  to  the  transac- 
tion of  business  was  allowed  to  accu- 
[  102] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

mulate  therein:   not  even  files  or  law- 
books. 

Thence  resulted  confidence  —  and  con- 
fidences. It  is  impossible  to  say  how 
much,  in  the  course  of  years,  the  empty 
room  had  contributed  to  Mr.  Reid's 
knowledge  of  his  clients'  affairs.  Space 
and  tune  are  so  intimately  connected 
that  to  possess  one  can  easily  seem  like 
possessing  the  other.  Mr.  Reid's  clients 
not  only  had  elbow-room:  they  felt,  by 
the  same  token,  unhurried.  Mr.  Reid 
himself,  with  a  little  more  space  than 
he  needed,  always  seemed  also  to  have 
a  little  surplus  time.  The  result  was 
often  to  enable  him  to  grasp  shades 
and  distinctions  in  a  human  situation, 
which  bore  not  insignificantly  on  a  pos- 
sible compromise.  The  firm,  to  be  sure, 
kept  free,  on  principle,  of  lurid  business; 
but  money  has  always  a  potentially 
lurid  aspect,  and  even  Mr.  Reid's  firm 
[  103  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

had  been  known  to  deal  —  by  way  of 
a  will  —  in  melodrama;  since  settling 
an  estate  can  be  as  vulgar  as  holding 
an  inquest. 

Mr.  Reid's  spacious  leisure  —  such,  as 
I  have  said,  was  the  effect,  though  he 
was  a  very  busy  man,  with  only  a  narrow 
chamber  between  him  and  a  most  pro- 
fessional bustle  —  was  divinely  fitted  to 
accommodate  itself  to  Cordelia  Whea- 
ton's  affairs.  Miss  Wheaton  herself  could 
not  have  borne  noise  or  hurry;  and 
after  Miss  Wheaton's  own  retirement 
from  wealth  and  America,  a  good  many 
odd  consultations  were  held  in  Mr. 
Reid's  office  that  might  not  have  been 
held  at  all  on  other  legal  premises.  By 
a  year  or  so  after  the  meeting  in  Miss 
Wheaton's  house,  Stephen  Reid  could 
see  her  benevolence  and  its  results  in 
almost  dramatic  form.  Cordelia  Wheaton, 
in  suppressing  herself,  had  let  loose  a 
\  104  1 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

very  varied  lot  of  activities  upon  the 
world.  Walter  Leaven,  Bessie  John,  old 
Mrs.  Will  is  ton,  Julie  Fort,  even,  knew 
something  of  the  plot;  but  no  one  began 
to  see  it  as  a  whole  except  the  quiet 
and  distinguished  lawyer.  Each  bene- 
ficiary had  necessarily  abated  some  of 
his  or  her  secrecy  for  this  one  man.  He 
knew  about  the  Johns'  investments;  he 
knew  the  size  of  the  cheque  that  had 
started  Jim  Huntingdon  on  the  longest 
trail  of  all;  he  wrasted  a  good  deal  of 
time  over  Mrs.  Williston's  demands  for 
a  thumping  interest  on  a  safe  invest- 
ment; he  strongly  suspected  that  old 
Miss  Bean  had  somewhere  a  veritable 
stocking  stuffed  with  veritable  bank- 
notes; and  he  was  almost  sure  that  Julie 
Fort's  capital  would  not  last  out  two 
years.  He  had  also  information  enough 
for  shrewd  guesses  about  a  dozen  others. 
Certain  families  had  gone  west  on  the 
I  105  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

strength  of  Miss  Wheaton's  gifts;  one 
or  two  people  had  frankly  disappeared; 
several  automobiles  had  been  acquired, 
as  well  as  at  least  one  pronounced  taste 
for  strong  drink.  One  aged  woman  had 
been  removed  from  an  old  ladies'  home 
to  be  domineered  over  by  almost  for- 
gotten relatives.  It  was  natural  that 
many  effects  should  escape  Mr.  Reid. 
But  there  were  threads  enough  to  fill 
his  fingers,  and  he  sometimes  felt  that 
Cordelia  Wheaton's  beneficiaries  would 
constitute  a  microcosm  quite  adequate 
to  all  experimental  purposes. 

Some  acquaintance,  almost  amount- 
ing to  tacit  friendship,  with  Walter 
Leaven,  was  the  only  thing  Reid  had  got 
out  of  it  for  himself.  It  had  become  sheer 
duty  to  look  after  Leaven's  windfall  for 
him,  and  Leaven's  personality  had  won 
on  the  lawyer.  Leaven,  too,  had  excited 
Mr.  Reid's  curiosity.  He  was  so  eager 
[  106] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

to  have  the  money  safe,  and  he  seemed 
so  little  to  want  anything  new  or  won- 
derful or  sky-defying  from  it.  There  was 
a  touch  of  the  miser  there,  without  a 
hint  of  greed.  Yet  at  Walter  Leaven's 
age  he  might  so  safely  have  thrown  in 
the  clutch !  Mr.  Reid  shrewdly  suspected 
that  his  arteries  would  not  last  much 
longer.  But  Leaven  rejected  the  sug- 
gestion of  an  annuity  with  almost  pious 
horror.  Nor  was  he  in  haste  to  make  a 
will.  He  had  no  one,  he  averred,  to  leave 
his  money  to.  Yet  the  question  of  a  will 
came  up  occasionally  between  them; 
and  it  was  evident  that  something  irked 
Leaven.  Mr.  Reid  gave  him  time.  He 
liked  the  multitudinous  delicacies  of 
the  older  man,  shining  here  and  there 
amid  his  reticence  like  flowers  in  a  forest. 
Moreover,  Walter  Leaven  was  the  only 
one  of  them  all  who  asked,  a  little  wist- 
fully, for  news  of  Miss  Wheaton.  He 
[  107  1 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

was  formal;  he  was  quiet;  and  there 
was  no  eagerness  in  his  eyes.  The  rest 
of  them  —  even  Mrs.  John  —  had 
seemed  to  clutch  a  little.  Reid  liked 
him. 

On  this  particular  day,  the  lawyer 
was  expecting  Leaven.  A  note  —  in  spite 
of  his  telephone,  Leaven  still  kept  the 
more  dignified  habit  of  notes  —  had 
warned  him.  Mr.  Reid  was  very  busy; 
but  he  had  had,  for  some  weeks,  a  re- 
vived interest  in  Miss  Whea ton's  af- 
fairs. He  was  glad  Leaven  was  coming, 
and  he  gave  orders  that  they  should 
not  be  disturbed. 

Walter  Leaven  was  always  shy  to 
begin  with.  He  hesitated  as  though  the 
spacious  leisure  of  that  office  were  not 
a  fiction.  But  at  last  he  made  a  vague 
approach. 

"About  my  will.  I've  been  thinking. 
I  should  like  to  get  it  off  my  mind." 
[  108] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"I  think  you  have  never  told  me 
whether  you  had  ever  made  one/' 

"No.  Not  really.  A  little  paper,  stat- 
ing that  one  or  two  objects  were  to  go 
to  the  Metropolitan.  No  one  would 
have  contested  it.  But  now  that  I  am 
a  man  of  some  property "  -  he  smiled 
sadly  —  "I  fancy  it  is  a  duty." 

"We  will  draw  it  up  for  you  with 
pleasure.  You  might  send  me  full  notes 
of  what  you  want  to  do,  and  then  I  will 
have  it  properly  executed.  Little  papers, 
you  know,  are  apt  to  be  no  good  at  all. 
Third  cousins  spring  up  —  third  cousins 
who  care  nothing  at  all  about  the  Metro- 
politan." He  explained  whimsically,  as 
he  would  have  done  to  a  child. 

"Quite  so.  Yes."  Leaven's  wintry 
smile  was  pure  manners;  he  was  evi- 
dently pondering  a  larger  matter. 

"I  ought  to  have  done  it  before,"  he 
said,  a  little  anxiously  —  as  people  will 
I  109] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

be  anxious  for  the  final  accomplishment 
of  something  they  have  postponed  for 
months.  "But  I  was  uncertain  in  my 
mind.  I  had  thought  of  leaving  my 
share  to  young  Huntingdon.  But  I  had 
a  long  letter  from  him  this  morning  - 
a  very  jolly  letter  —  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  can  bring  myself  to  it.  I  respect 
him,  but  I  do  not  understand  his  tastes. 
And  it  seems  to  me,"  he  finished  irri- 
tably, "that  perhaps  enough  of  Miss 
Wheaton's  money  has  been  spent  al- 
ready on  the  continent  of  Asia." 

Mr.  Reid  shifted  his  gaze  a  little  and 
listened  intently  to  his  companion's  tone. 
A  less  experienced  man  would  have  ex- 
amined Leaven's  countenance.  "I  am 
almost  inclined  to  agree  with  you,"  he 
said  quietly.  "But  I  should  be  much  in- 
terested to  know  your  reasons.  Is  young 
Huntingdon  making  an  ass  of  himself?" 

"Not   at   all,   not   at   all."   Leaven's 
(  HO] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

voice  was  almost  apologetic.  "But  his 
letter  rather  put  me  off,  jolly  as  it  was. 
I  dare  say  I  am  narrow.  My  life  has 
been  chiefly  Italy  —  and  then  memories 
of  Italy  —  and  then  more  memories.  I 
can't,  at  my  age,  take  an  interest  in 
Sikkiin,  can  I?  Nor  yet  in  the  people 
he  seems  to  have  fallen  in  love  with. 
Lepchas,  I  think  he  calls  them.  Cer- 
tainly not  Tuscans.  I  think  he  wants 
to  enrich  a  whole  village  of  them.  Set 
them  up  agriculturally.  Buy  land  out- 
right for  them.  It  seems  they've  been 
oppressed.  /  don't  know.  The  virtues 
of  the  present  generation  are  as  incom- 
prehensible to  me,  I'm  afraid,  as  their 
vices.  No,  not  Jim  Huntingdon;  though 
I  respect  him." 

"Well,  send  me  the  notes,  and  I  will 

have  the  will  drawn  up,"  repeated  Mr. 

Reid.  If  this  was  all  —  much  as  he  tended 

to  like  Leaven,  he  remembered  that  there 

[  HI] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

was  business  beyond  the  empty  room 
that  he  ought  to  attend  to.  Then  Leaven 
pulled  him  up  short. 

"I  want  to  consult  you  first.  My  ob- 
ject is  to  leave  everything  I  have  to 
Cordelia  Wheaton.  But  if  I  leave  it  to 
her  outright  —  well,  you  see  what  she 
has  done  with  it  already.  It  would  be 
battledore  and  shuttlecock.  If  I  don't 
consider  young  Huntingdon  good  enough 
for  her  money,  certainly  I  don't  consider 
any  of  the  others  so  —  though  the  Johns 
seem  to  me  nice  people  in  a  smug  way. 
.  .  .  So,"  he  resumed  after  a  pause,  "I 
can't  will  it  straight  to  her.  I  couldn't 
depend  on  her  using  it  herself.  That  is 
where  you  must  help  me  out.  Couldn't 
I  leave  it  to  you,  in  trust  for  her  —  so 
that  she  couldn't  possibly  spend  the 
principal,  yet  couldn't  get  away  from 
the  income  ?  '* 

Mr.  Reid  placed  his  finger-tips  to- 
[  112] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

gather.  "Would  you  mind  telling  rne 
how  recently  this  occurred  to  you?  I 
take  it,  from  what  you  said  about  young 
Huntingdon,  that  it  has  not  always 
been  your  idea." 

Leaven  hesitated.  His  grayish-brown 
face  wrinkled  with  the  obvious  endeavor 
to  choose  his  words. 

"No,  I  did  not  think  of  it  at  first. 
Perhaps  I  was  a  little  bitter.  Perhaps 
I  was  a  little  proud."  He  did  not  ex- 
plain his  words,  and  Mr.  Reid  was  forced 
to  get  from  them  such  light  as  he  could. 
"And  of  course  it  seemed  rather  absurd 
just  to  give  it  back,  when  she  had  been 
at  such  pains  to  get  rid  of  it.  But  all 
that  has  passed  away.  I  particularly 
want  her  to  have  it  —  in  spite  of  her- 
self." 

Mr.  Reid  was  a  tactful  man,  but  he 
felt  curiosity  sharp  as  youth's  own,  and 
he  could  not  refrain. 

I  113] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

"I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  im- 
pertinent. .  .  .  Has  anything  happened 
to  bring  about  this  decision  on  your 
part?" 

"Nothing  —  nothing."  The  expression 
in  Walter  Leaven's  face  sufficiently  dis- 
posed of  any  suggestion  of  the  sort. 
A  shadowy  countenance,  escorted  by 
shadows,  you  might  say.  "I  have  known 
Cordelia  Wheaton  a  very  long  time. 
Thoughts  may  be  permitted  me  that 
might  seem  officious  in  others.  I  shall 
be  most  at  peace  if  I  know  that  what 
she  has  given  me  is  placed  where  it  can 
be  useful  to  her  —  where  she  cannot 
prevent  its  being  useful  to  her.  So,  if 
you  would  kindly  draw  up  that  kind  of 
document,  I  will  send  you  the  notes  you 
ask  for.  Now  I  will  not  take  any  more 
of  your  time." 

At  the  door  of  the  empty  room  he 
turned.  "Is  it  asking  a  great  deal  of 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

you  to  ask  you  this  ?  I  -  - 1  really  know 
nothing  about  such  things.  It  is  some- 
times done,  surely?  Whatever  the  usual 
procedure  —  I  leave  it  quite  to  you." 

"You  can  rely  upon  us."  The  lawyer 
spoke  in  a  short,  satisfied  tone. 

"Thank  you."  He  still  held  the  knob 
of  the  door.  "How  is  she?  Are  you  still 
by  way  of  hearing?" 

This  time  it  was  Mr.  Reid  who  re- 
plied absently.  "Well,  I  think.  Yes, 
well."  His  mind  was  busy  elsewhere,  and 
Walter  Leaven  passed  into  the  outer  of- 
fices. 

Left  alone,  Mr.  Reid  did  not  at  once 
declare  himself  ready  for  the  business 
of  the  firm.  He  was  profoundly  moved. 
A  very  old  friend  of  Miss  WTiea  ton's, 
Leaven  evidently  was.  The  lawyer  did 
not  speculate  sentimentally.  Love-affairs 
did  not  concern  him  unless  they  bore  a 
legal  aspect.  Besides,  Leaven's  face  was 
[  115] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

the  negation  of  emotion,  even  of  that 
adulterated  emotion  known  as  senti- 
ment. But  it  was  very  pleasing  that 
Leaven  should  have  come  to  him  on 
just  that  errand.  He  liked  Leaven;  he 
felt  as  if  Leaven  had  done  him  a  good 
turn.  Stephen  Reid  would  not  forget. 
Here  and  there  a  human  being  did  have 
some  sensitiveness,  some  delicacy.  .  .  . 
The  fact  is  that  Mr.  Reid  still  austerely 
thought  of  that  distributed  wealth  as 
Miss  Wheaton's  money.  Even  after  a 
year  he  could  hardly  recognize  the  scat- 
tered particles  as  separate  units.  He 
had  never  liked  her  decision  to  im- 
poverish herself;  and  the  little  he  knew 
about  her  own  plans  for  existence 
shocked  him  quite  as  much  as  fuller 
knowledge  had  shocked  Leaven.  Leaven 
had  finally  come  to  see  Cordelia's  act 
as  vitally  a  part  of  her,  a  madness  for 
which  no  one  but  Cordelia  was  respon- 
[  1161 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

sible.  His  bitterness  was  against  life 
for  permitting  Cordelia,  of  all  people, 
to  be  like  that.  But  Mr.  Reid  was  slightly 
hostile  to  the  rabble  that  had  benefited: 
he  saw  them,  at  least,  as  accessories 
after  the  fact.  With  the  exception  of 
Leaven,  who  had  the  grace  not  to  be 
happy,  he  felt  them  all  slightly  criminal. 
Luckily  there  was  other  business  to 
bestir  himself  about.  He  rang,  with  a 
sigh,  for  Boomer. 


[1171 


VII 

ESSIE  JOHN  was  a  little  thin.  She 
had  never  been  plump,  but  there 
had  been  just  flesh  enough  to  fill  the 
hollows;  now  there  were  visible  con- 
cavities in  cheek  and  neck.  She  was  a 
brave  woman,  however,  and,  though 
two  years  had  passed  since  the  November 
afternoon  forty  people  had  spent  un- 
comfortably together  in  Miss  Wheaton's 
drawing-rooms,  though  the  first  glow 
of  apparent  wealth  had  faded  and  life 
was  constantly  making  unexpectedly  dull 
demands  upon  her,  she  had  spirit  and 
humor  left  to  face  the  world  with.  The 
"sea-captain's  front  parlor"  was  a  little 
frayed  and  dimmed  by  time  and  acci- 
dents; the  house  had  shrunk  appallingly 
since  the  twins  had  come.  A  very  neces- 
[  118] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

sary  white-uniformed  person  perpetually 
snatched  from  the  Johns  the  price  of 
opera- tickets.  Bills  were  rendered  as 
inconveniently,  it  seemed,  as  they  had 
been  in  the  earlier  days.  But  Bessie 
John  had  not  coquetted  with  her  "Co- 
lonial" ideal:  she  had  really  accepted 
it  for  better,  for  worse.  If  she  had  de- 
veloped a  tendency  to  tea-gowns,  they 
were  only  her  substitute  for  caps.  Her 
movements  were  as  brisk  as  ever,  and 
her  tea-gowns  were  made  of  serviceable 
stuff. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Bessie  John, 
in  accepting  her  ideal,  had  deliberately 
narrowed  her  vision.  She  bade  fair  to 
be,  some  day,  over-domestic,  over-ma- 
ternal, over-conventional;  to  let  herself 
go  in  consecrated  selfishness.  In  other 
words,  she  was  shaping  to  the  type  of 
Wife  and  Mother.  For  her  husband  and 
her  children  she  was  prepared  to  be  a 
[119] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

brute  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  if  the  rest 
of  the  world  got  in  their  way.  In  the 
earlier  years  of  her  marriage  Philip 
John  had  held  her,  as  it  were,  on  a  leash. 
She  had  liked  her  leash,  but  there  had 
been  strains  and  tugs,  gambollings  that 
amused  John.  Now  she  was  tethered 
more  firmly,  and  when  Philip  went  forth 
into  the  world  she  did  not  accompany 
him.  She  was  going  to  be  more  Colonial 
than  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  being; 
her  hyperboles  had  turned  and  clutched 
her.  A  nice  woman,  Bessie  John,  but 
not  in  the  least  what  she  had  seemed  to 
be  when  childless,  mocking,  and  poor. 
Sometimes  she  wondered  fantastically 
if  she  would  have  developed  differently 
under  the  influence  of  Chinese  Chippen- 
dale. But  she  soon  gave  over  even  won- 
dering, for  the  beginnings  of  change  in 
her  were  real. 

Take  an  instance.  In  the  first  days  of 
I  120] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

buying  and  furnishing  she  had  spoken 
lightly  to  her  husband  of  Julie  Fort. 
Now  that  Julie  was  known  to  have 
taken  the  primrose  path,  Bessie  John 
never  mentioned  her  at  all.  She  had 
for  Julie's  vagaries  the  sternness,  not  of 
religion  —  for  religion  comports  charity 
—  but  of  convention;  which,  being  a 
law  and  nothing  more,  does  not  trouble 
itself  with  psychology.  It  is  ticklish 
business  to  damn  people,  for  damning 
is,  after  all,  God's  affair;  but  it  is  per- 
fectly simple  to  cut  them,  and  in  her 
heart  Bessie  John  cut  Julie.  If  you  ask 
me  the  real  reason  for  her  mentally 
cutting  Julie  (she  had  no  chance  to  cut 
her  face  to  face,  for  Julie  was  still 
abroad),  I  can  only  say  that  I  believe 
it  was  because  the  twins  were  boys.  Or 
another  example,  more  vital  still:  Mrs. 
John  had  recently  found  it  possible 
once  more  to  call  Mrs.  Williston  "Aunt 
[  121  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

Blanche."  She  had  come  to  feel  the 
natural  solidarity  of  people  who  have  a 
little  money  as  against  those  who  have 
none.  Two  years  after  Miss  Wheaton's 
beneficent  gesture,  Bessie  John  would 
not  have  given  the  great-nephew  a  dollar 
for  cigarettes. 

Superficially,  of  course,  not  much  of 
all  this  was  visible.  Bessie  John  had 
not  yet  altered  her  vocabulary.  It  would 
take  a  good  many  years  for  her  to  achieve 
the  type  towards  which  she  was  strain- 
ing. But  her  type  was  certainly  meet- 
ing her  half-way :  consider  the  twins ! 

Philip  John,  content  from  boyhood  to 
be  as  God  made  him,  did  not  hold  with- 
in himself  the  seeds  of  change.  When 
he  seemed  different,  you  might  be  sure 
that  he  had  only  turned  slowly  about, 
unconsciously  displaying  another  aspect. 
You  might  never  have  seen  it  before; 
it  might  surprise  you;  but  that  was 
[  122  ] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

sheer  miscalculation  on  your  part,  and 
could  be  laid  to  no  fickleness  of  his.  He 
was  romantically  devoted  to  his  wife, 
though  he  did  not  wholly  understand 
her.  He  was  a  little  surprised  at  her 
passion  for  domesticating  herself,  but 
it  fell  in  with  traditions  familiar  to  him, 
so  that  he  merely  considered  himself 
more  fortunate  than  ever.  The  new 
necessity  of  economy  was  more  welcome 
to  him  than  the  first  flush  of  extrava- 
gance had  been;  it  was  part  of  life  as 
he  had  always  expected  to  find  it.  Bessie 
continued  to  love  him  as  much  as  if  it 
had  not  been  her  duty  to.  What  more 
could  he  ask  ? 

From  that  you  must  make  out  as 
well  as  you  can  what  life  was  eventually 
to  do  with  the  Johns. 

It  was  again  November.  Bessie  John 
waited  in  the  dimmed  drawing-room  for 
[  123] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

her  husband  to  come  home.  Even  the 
twins'  coucher  was  not  allowed  to  inter- 
fere with  the  quiet  half-hour  between 
his  return  and  the  necessity  of  dressing. 
What  was  the  white-uniformed  person 
for?  Bessie  was  possessed  of  the  very 
moral  intention  of  getting  full  service 
for  the  wages  she  paid.  Let  one  of  the 
twins  depart  in  any  way  from  the  laws 
of  nature  as  laid  down  by  specialists, 
and  she  was  on  the  spot,  flushed  and 
alert.  Otherwise  —  Philip  was  her  hus- 
band. 

He  came  in  later  than  she  had  ex- 
pected him,  with  a  worried  look  that 
did  not  escape  her.  She  bundled  him 
into  the  big  wing-chair  (it  needed  re- 
covering) and  as  usual  took  the  words 
out  of  his  mouth  —  out  of  his  throat, 
rather,  since  they  never  reached  his 
lips. 

"How  tired  you  are,  precious!  Was 
[  124] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

it  very  rotten?  If  Mr.  Reid  looks  like 
a  trip  to  South  America,  you  must  get 
out  a  warrant.  I  hope  you  reminded 
him  that  the  investments  were  all  made 
by  his  explicit  advice.  Is  there  anything 
the  matter  writh  our  money,  dear?" 

"Not  a  thing,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"Well,  then,  nothing  matters,  does 
it?  But  he's  a  beast  to  make  wrinkles 
in  your  forehead.  He  might  have  con- 
sidered me.  You  have  all  the  looks  of 
the  family,  and  if  he  mars  your  beauty 
I  will  sue  him.  The  next  time,  7  will 
reply  to  Mr.  Reid's  summons.  The  money 
is  mine,  anyhow.  I  never  gave  you  a 
penny  of  it  for  your  own,  did  I,  dear?" 

"No,  you  didn't."  He  underscored 
the  words. 

"Well,   of  course — '     She   flung   out 

her  hands  in  a  beautiful,  free  gesture. 

"I  couldn't  trust  you  with  it,  could  I, 

now,   Philip?  We  had  it  all  out.   You 

[  125  1 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

don't  mean  to  say  that  you  wanted  me 
to?" 

"I  didn't  say  that,  Bess." 

"Why,  Phil,  Phil,  is  there  anything 
in  this?  I  told  you  I  couldn't  trust  you 
to  spend  it  on  yourself  -  -  to  fend  off 
beggars  in  high  places.  I  kept  it,  heaven 
knows,  so  that  it  would  be  kept.  You've 
always  had  a  power  of  attorney.  And 
what  business  is  it  of  Mr.  Reid's,  any- 
how? Can't  you  and  I  decide  a  thing 
like  that?" 

"You're  way  off,  my  dear."  He 
laughed  a  little.  "Why  should  Reid 
lecture  you  through  me?  Do  you  think 
he  would  do  such  a  thing,  or  I  listen  to 
him?" 

"Well,  what  is  it,  then?"  Bessie  John 
stroked  her  dark-blue  dress,  smoothing 
the  thin  stuff  out  over  her  knees.  She  had 
relaxed  since  the  reassuring  words  came. 

"Reid  wants  to  see  us  both  to-morrow 
[  1261 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

afternoon.  And  we  are  not  the  only 
ones.  He  is  sending  for  others,  too. 
Leaven,  I  believe,  and  Mrs.  Williston, 
and  one  or  two  more.  Something  is  up, 
but  he  didn't  tell  me  what.  I  think  he 
got  me  there  to  tell  me  and  then  changed 
his  mind.  I  reminded  him  that  I  was 
not  directly  concerned  in  Miss  Whea- 
ton's  gifts.  I  made  the  appointment 
for  us  both  to-morrow,  according  to  his 
request." 

Mrs.  John  had  sprung  to  her  feet 
while  he  spoke.  "Philip!"  she  cried. 
"She  wants  to  take  it  back!  But  she 
can't  —  she  can't.  Mr.  Reid  ought  to 
know  that.  I  hope  you  didn't  give  him 
any  encouragement.  Why,  I'd  take  it 
to  every  court  in  the  country.  It  was  a 
free  gift.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
legal.  Do  you  think  the  papers  were 
wrong  —  inadequate  ?  Lawyers  are  capa- 
ble of  anything." 

[  127] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

"Calm  down,  Bess.  I  should  say  the 
transfers  were  about  as  legal  and  final 
as  transfers  could  be.  And  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  realize  that  Mr.  Reid's  firm 
is  one  of  the  most  respected  in  the  city. 
They  wouldn't  lend  themselves  to  a 
trick  if  they  could.  You  do  get  the 
strangest  ideas !" 

"I  get  them  because  I  am  afraid. 
You  said  yourself  that  something  was 
up.  If  the  investments  are  all  right  and 
the  title  is  impeccable,  I  don't  see  what 
it  can  be.  But  there's  trouble  ahead, 
somehow.  I  can  feel  it  all  over." 

"Oh,  when  you  take  to  feeling  things 
all  over — "  he  scoffed  wearily. 

"A  woman's  brain,  I  really  believe, 
isn't  restricted  to  her  head-piece.  The 
tips  of  my  fingers  tell  me  things."  She 
clawed  the  air  delicately  with  them  by 
way  of  emphasis. 

Philip  John  leaned  over,  caught  the 
[  128] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

clawing  fingers  on  an  ascending  spiral, 
and  kissed  them. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  dear.  But 
we're  bound  to  go  and  see.  It  can't  be 
anything  very  bad.  Even  if  worse  came 
to  worst " 

"If  worse  came  to  worst,  it  would 
be  Chaos  and  Old  Night.  Do  you  realize 
that  I  have  planned  out  our  whole  exist- 
ence, for  three  score  years  and  ten,  on 
the  basis  of  what  we  have?  With  mar- 
gins for  accident  and  everything?  I've 
counted  to  a  dollar  the  twins'  schooling 
and  their  advantages.  Adenoids  and  all. 
I've  counted  in  your  prospective  rises 
in  salary:  every  one,  exactly  as  it  may 
be  expected  to  occur.  Why,  my  dear,  I 
have  a  budget  all  made  out  until  the 
twins  are  twenty-five  —  and  for  us,  after 
that.  We're  thrown  on  the  wide  world 
if  anything  happens  to  my  money.  I've 
built  up  a  philosophy  of  life  on  it.  You 
[  1291 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

take  away  my  law  and  my  prophets, 
you  take  away  my  soul,  if  you  take  it 
away.** 

"Souls  oughtn't  to  be  dependent  on 
hard  cash,  ought  they?" 

"Why  don't  you  take  orders,  Philip?" 
she  mocked.  "I've  turned  myself  into 
a  certain  kind  of  person.  I've  borne 
you  children.  I've  made  a  covenant 
with  Society.  I  have  done  irrevocable 
things.  .  .  .  And  if  you  talk  of  losing 
the  little  money  we  have,  I  shall  scream. 
Am  I  a  serpent  that  I  should  cast  my 
skin?  I  have  not  been  extravagant.  I 
couldn't  be.  The  change  was  too  solemn 
for  that.  I've  taken  vows,  if  you  like. 
Mr.  Reid  shan't  have  a  penny.  To  trick 
me  into  having  children  !" 

"Bess!"  His  reproach  was  only  in 
part  for  her  incoherence. 

"Well,  that  would  be  it.  I  should 
never  have  consented  to  have  them  if 
I  130] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

I  hadn't  expected  to  bring  them  up 
decently  -  -  to  make  their  bodies  fit  and 
their  minds  noble.  Cordelia  Wheaton 
brought  those  children  into  the  world. 
She'll  not  go  back  on  her  responsibilities 
while  I  am  there  to  fight  for  them." 
Then  she  dropped  back,  exhausted.  Her 
tone  changed. 

"Forgive  me,  Philip.  I  may  have 
said  things  to  pain  you.  Only  I  hate 
being  the  mouse  when  some  one  else 
is  the  cat.  I  think  you  can  trust  me. 
I  shan't  make  a  scene,  whatever 
happens." 

"Nothing  can  happen,  dear,  so  far  as 
I  can  see.  And,  you  know,  when  you 
happen  to  feel  like  a  mouse,  you  think 
everything  is  a  cat." 

She  leaned  over  him  and  patted  his 
shoulder.  "I  know  you  don't  misunder- 
stand me:  we've  always  been  so  straight 
with  each  other  at  every  stage.  I  couldn't 

r  i3i  i 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

live  without  the  twinnies,  even  if  I  had 
to  take  them  round  with  a  hurdy-gurdy 
and  make  all  our  livings  in  coppers.  I 
honestly  couldn't.  I  could  have  got  on 
very  well  without  maternal  affection, 
but  once  there  you  can't  get  rid  of  it. 
It's  indestructible  as  asbestos.  I  know 
you  understand;  so  you'll  forgive  me, 
won't  you?" 

"Of  course."  She  was  sitting  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  and  he  drew  her  head 
to  his  shoulder. 

"I  wonder  who  the  others  will  be," 
she  mused,  smiling  a  little.  "Old  Mr. 
Leaven  goes  without  saying.  How  Aunt 
Blanche  hates  him!  He's  godless,  you 
know.  It  will  be  fun  to  see  them  to- 
gether. Thank  heaven,  for  every  one's 
sake,  Julie  Fort's  abroad.  She  has  spent 
all  hers,  they  say.  And  old  Miss  Bean 
-  what  a  pity  she  can't  be  there !  I 
met  her  once  in  Mr.  Reid's  office,  and 
[  132] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

she  looked  at  his  chair  as  if  it  were  the 
Great  White  Throne.  You  know  the 
way  she  pulls  her  poor  old  skirts  up  and 
cringes  away  a  little  from  anything  she 
respects.  But  she's  safe  in  the  hospi- 
tal." 

"In  the  hospital?  What's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"Ssh  —  ssh  !  Aunt  Blanche  told  me 
in  confidence.  She  went  back  to  the 
Holy  Rollers  after  a  season  of  New 
Thought.  She  couldn't  think  newly 
enough.  And  last  week  she  broke  her 
leg  rolling  under  a  porch  in  Hackensack. 
Saints  always  did  have  hard  luck  with 
their  anatomies,  you  know."  Bessie  John 
laughed  softly  as  she  ruffled  her  hus- 
band's hair.  Then  she  rose  quickly. 

"I   must  go  and   say   good-night   to 

the   twins,   Philip.   Won't   it   be  funny 

when   they   can   say  good-night?   Let's 

dress  extremely  for  dinner.  Put  on  all 

[  133] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

your  pearls,  dear.  And  we'll  open  some- 
thing and  drink  to  Cordelia  Wheaton. 
That's  what  teetotallers  were  meant 
for  —  to  have  their  healths  drunk."  She 
left  the  room,  still  laughing  softly. 

The  Johns  dined  festally.  Not  only  did 
Bessie  "open"  burgundy,  but  she  pro- 
duced as  well  her  own  particular  vintage: 
not  her  mere  railing  of  every  day,  but 
wit  with  a  bouquet,  of  which  she  still  had 
a  little  left.  It  bubbled  up  between  them, 
evoking  youth,  when  there  had  seemed 
to  be  an  inexhaustible  store  of  it.  Smart 
and  shimmering  in  her  best  frock,  she 
faced  Philip  John  with  "all  his  pearls" 
on.  She  even  won  her  sober-seem- 
ing husband  to  irresponsibility  with 
her.  They  laughed  until  they  choked; 
they  invaded  the  sea-captain's  front 
parlor  with  a  nursery  atmosphere  - 
where  every  one  plays  as  hard  as  he 
can  and  it  is  some  one's  else  business 
[  134] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

to  pick  things   up    afterwards.    It   was 
late  when  they  went  up-stairs  to  bed. 

Philip  John,  positively  worn  out  with 
fun,  slept  almost  immediately.  His  wife 
lay  on  her  side,  watching  his  vague 
form  in  the  j?ed  next  hers.  The  glimmer 
of  a  street  light  struck  through  a  crack 
in  the  shutter  and  enabled  her  to  half- 
see,  half-surmise  the  sleeping  shape  of 
him.  She  was  not  nervous;  she  was 
thinking.  Her  bodily  comfort  was  com- 
plete. It  was  not  pleasant  to  stay  awake 
with  thoughts  like  hers;  but  how  much 
better  than  to  sleep  and  wrake  unpre- 
pared !  She  really  needed  the  time  and 
the  peace.  For  Bessie  John,  in  the  midst 
of  her  gayety,  had  suddenly  understood. 
It  had  come  to  her  like  a  flash  as  she 
crossed  the  hall  to  fetch  something  they 
needed  for  an  absurd  joke.  Towards 
dawn,  she  seemed  to  herself  to  have  can- 
vassed every  inch  of  the  situation.  The 
[  135] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

tactician  in  her  dismissed  his  staff.  With- 
out an  effort  or  a  sigh  she  turned  on  her 
other  side  and  slept. 


[  136 


VIII 

A  yCR.  REID  had  not  summoned  many 
•*•  people  to  his  little  conference. 
Indeed,  there  were  not  many  left  in 
New  York  whom  he  could  summon, 
for  much  of  Miss  Wheaton's  money 
had  betaken  itself  to  inaccessible  places. 
There  was  Randall,  for  example  —  a 
stiff,  silent  man,  whose  wife  had  died 
six  months  before,  her  last  illness  made 
just  tolerable  to  her  husband  by  the 
luxuries  Miss  Wheaton  had  enabled  him 
to  lavish  on  her.  But  Randall  had  gone 
west  to  make  a  new  start  there  for  his 
boys.  Jim  Huntingdon  was  sitting  some- 
where on  the  roof  of  the  world,  dangling 
his  feet  over  in  an  ecstasy.  Mrs.  Corbet 
was  solitary,  and  could  have  been  drawn 
into  the  conference;  but  since  her  ac- 
[  137  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

cession  of  fortune  her  health  had  left 
her,  and  she  was  wintering  in  California. 
Mrs.  Corbet,  had  Mr.  Reid  but  known, 
need  scarcely  have  been  regretted;  for, 
from  the  moment  that  she  could  afford 
operations,  one  after  another  had  been 
found  necessary.  She  was  now  living  as 
cheaply  as  medical  advice  permitted 
and  looking  forward  to  another  in  the 
spring  —  one  of  those  women  whose 
doom  it  is  to  be  nothing  but  a  com- 
plicated surgical  demonstration.  Many 
of  the  beneficiaries  Mr.  Reid  had,  of 
course,  quite  lost  track  of;  some  of  the 
others  there  was  no  use  in  consulting; 
one  or. two  had  died.  There  were  a  few 
left  —  wise  virgins  of  the  parable,  but 
by  no  means  twelve  of  them.  These 
he  had  asked  to  come.  It  was  a  painful 
business:  he  dreaded  it. 

The    Johns    came    first    through    the 
empty  room,  Bessie  John  wearing  her 
[  138] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

quietest  clothes  and  her  quietest  manner, 
Philip  a  little  ponderous  and  tired.  Mrs. 
John  had  not  spoken  to  her  husband  of 
Mr.  Reid  and  his  summons  since  she 
had  asked  for  his  forgiveness  the  after- 
noon before.  Walter  Leaven  followed 
close  upon  them,  a  little  older,  a  little 
dryer  and  fainter,  than  the  last  time  he 
had  visited  those  offices.  Mrs.  Williston 
was  last  of  all,  so  very  late  that  it  was 
apparently  by  intention.  The  lawyer 
looked  about  at  the  tiny  group.  Strange 
that  after  only  two  years  these  should 
be  all  he  could,  for  one  reason  or  another, 
lay  hands  on  for  his  purpose !  But  he 
looked  at  Walter  Leaven  and  at  Philip 
John  and  took  heart. 

In  a  few  words,  nervous  but  clear, 
he  put  the  situation  before  them.  Miss 
Wheaton  had  reserved  very  little  of 
her  capital  for  her  own  use.  It  had  been 
left  in  his  hands,  yes;  but  she  had  in- 
[  139] 


left  ii 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

sisted,  contrary  to  all  his  advice,  in 
keeping  the  amount  in  its  original  in- 
vestment. It  was  a  matter,  he  believed, 
of  sentiment  —  an  inheritance  from  her 
mother  that  had  always  been  invested 
in  that  particular  concern.  Perhaps  they 
knew  that  she  had  not  always  been 
in  sympathy  with  her  father's  methods? 
He  had  grown  anxious,  warned  her,  but 
she  had  refused  to  alter  it.  He  could 
not  be  sure  that  his  last  letter  had  even 
reached  her;  he  had  had  no  answer. 
.  .  .  Times  had  changed  very  much:  new 
legislation,  new  mergers,  new  methods 
had  killed  the  business.  The  stockholders 
had  lost  all  their  money.  Miss  Wheaton, 
voluntarily  impoverished,  was  now  in- 
voluntarily penniless.  What  could  be 
done  about  it  ? 

The  only  expression  of  shocked  sur- 
prise  came   from    Philip   John.    Walter 
Leaven  had  so  long  been  beset  by  vague 
f  140  1 


In  a  few  words,  nervous  l>nt  clear,  he  put  the  situation 
before  them. 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

presentiments  that  he  was  mightily  re- 
lieved to  know  the  worst:  his  features 
relaxed.  Old  Mrs.  Williston  had  her 
religion  to  sustain  her  —  a  religion  that 
dealt  largely  in  the  catastrophes  of  other 
people. 

Bessie  John  had  guessed  it  at  five 
minutes  past  eleven  the  evening  before, 
and  had  had  time  to  deal  with  it.  But 
Bessie  John  did  not  wish  to  be  the  first 
to  break  the  silence  that  fell.  She  was 
very,  very  glad  that  the  money  was 
hers  and  not  Philip's,  for  that  meant 
that  Philip  could  not  break  the  silence 
either.  He  could  not  even  consult  her 
privately,  there  in  public.  She  sat,  taut 
and  prepared.  Her  plan  had  been  all  a 
matter  of  taking  certain  cues  that  she 
felt  sure  would  come.  She  waited  for 
them.  She  was  counting  on  Aunt 
Blanche. 

Mr.  Reid,  who  had  been  counting  on 
I  141] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

Walter  Leaven,  saw  that  though  he 
could  probably  still  count  on  him,  it 
would  not  be  for  speech.  One  quick 
glance  showed  him  Philip  John  dis- 
tressed and  silent,  prey  of  feelings  as 
delicate  as  you  liked  but  conflicting. 
He  was  obviously  moved,  but  he  could 
not  rush  to  Miss  Wheaton's  relief  with 
his  wife's  money.  Mrs.  John  was  entirely 
at  ease  in  her  inn:  impulses  perfectly 
in  order.  Finally,  Mr.  Reid  turned  to 
Mrs.  Williston  —  with  deference.  He 
must  get  speech  out  of  the  group  some- 
how. He  lifted  his  eyebrows  with  irre- 
sistible interrogation,  as  if  assuming  that 
all  of  them  must  needs  give  precedence 
to  her  massive  virtue. 

No  questions  lightened  the  silence, 
and  Mrs.  Williston  took  her  time.  Finally 
she  turned  to  the  lawyer. 

"Where  are  the  others?" 

"What  others?" 

[  142] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

"The  others  who  should  have  been 
here  with  us." 

Mr.  Reid  smiled  austerely.  "They  are 
everywhere  and  nowhere.  I  have  com- 
municated with  a  few  by  writing,  but 
you  four  are  all  I  could  gather  together 
for  a  personal  conference.  Several  whom 
I  could  have  got  hold  of  I  preferred  to 
leave  alone  for  the  present.  I  wanted 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  —  well,  with 
the  chosen  few.  It  is  for  us  to  decide 
what  shall  be  done." 

"Why  for  us  more  than  the  others?" 
she  asked  relentlessly. 

"I  do  not  care  to  publish  this  too 
widely  at  present.  Besides,  a  good  many 
of  Miss  Wheaton's  beneficiaries"  -the 
word  stood  out  naked  among  them  - 
"are  no  longer  in  a  position  to  be  of 
practical  use.  The  estate  was  very  much 
broken  up.  I  selected,  of  those  who  were 
at  hand,  the  people  who  were,  for  one 
[  143  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

reason  or  another,  more  able  to  take 
responsibility  in  the  matter;  who  had 
more  wisdom;  who  presumably  hadn't 
squandered  their  windfall  utterly;  who 
-  well,  who  could  be  depended  on  to 
take  in  the  situation  and  to  act.  It  is 
probably  no  news  to  any  of  you  that 
some  of  Miss  Wheaton's  friends  have 
turned  out  to  be  mere  wasters  and  fools. 
...  I  should  be  glad,  Mrs.  Williston, 
if  you  would  give  us  your  advice.  You 
are  a  very  old  friend  of  hers,  I  believe." 
"I  have  known  Cordelia  Wheaton  a 
long  time,"  Mrs.  Williston  admitted, 
"but  my  own  opinion  is  that  she  is  out 
of  her  mind.  I  think  we  should  proceed 
on  that  basis." 

"Your  reasons  for  believing  that?" 
Mrs.  Williston  was  wholly  undismayed 
by  his  sharpness.  She  replied,  not  with- 
out unction.  "I  have  been  told  that  she 
has  spent  the  last  two  years  in  the  East, 
[  144] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

giving  herself  up  entirely  to  the  prac- 
tices of  some  heathen  sect.  I  merely 
put  the  most  charitable  construction 
upon  her  actions.  I  know  of  no  fund  that 
can  provide  for  such  people;  I  see  no 
way  out  of  it  but  an  insane  asylum." 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  mean  that 
you  think  her  dangerous  to  society?" 

"Probably  not.  But  I  do  not  see  how 
she  can  benefit  by  Christian  charity.  I 
am  on  the  executive  board  of  the  Refuge 
for  Aged  and  Indigent  Gentlewomen, 
but  I  should  be  powerless.  All  our  in- 
mates are  required  to  profess  the  Chris- 
tian religion.  I  will  make  inquiries;  any 
point  that  can  be  stretched  shall  be. 
But  you  see  my  position.  We  are  non- 
sectarian,  but  evangelical.  I  am  afraid 
there  is  no  hope  there.  ...  Of  course, 
if  Cordelia  should  see  the  light  again. 
.  .  .  But  she  was  always  obstinate.  I 
was  very  fond  of  her,  and  this  is  a  great 
[  145  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

distress  to  me.'*  Mrs.  Williston  shook 
out  the  folds  of  a  fine  white  handkerchief, 
and  ceased  speaking. 

Walter  Leaven,  with  complete  dis- 
regard of  manners,  got  up  and  walked 
to  where  Mr.  Reid  sat  behind  his  desk. 
There  he  whispered  flagrantly  in  the 
lawyer's  ear.  Mr.  Reid  shook  his  head. 
.  .  .  Leaven  whispered  again.  .  .  .  The 
others  turned  away  from  this  by-play, 
each  choosing  an  object  to  stare  at  in 
the  comfortable  office.  Bessie  John  fixed 
a  brown  leather  cushion  in  a  deep  chair, 
as  once  she  had  fixed  Miss  Whea ton's 
chessmen,  with  her  gaze.  She  seemed  to 
be  counting  the  buttons  on  the  cushion, 
if  indeed  she  were  not  too  intent  on  it 
even  to  count.  The  chair  was  on  her 
left  hand,  and  her  husband  sat  at  her 
right.  John  contemplated  his  wife's  right 
ear  as  if  trying  to  mesmerize  her  through 
that  novel  means.  .  .  .  Mr.  Reid  at 
[  146] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

last  scribbled  something  on  a  paper, 
folded  the  paper  carefully,  and  handed 
it  to  Leaven.  Whereupon  Leaven  left 
the  room.  The  click  of  the  closing  door 
brought  all  eyes  back  to  Mr.  Reid. 

The  lawyer  turned  to  Bessie  John. 

"Mrs.  Williston  is  too  overcome  by 
her  friend's  misfortune  to  envisage  the 
situation  helpfully,  I  fear.  Mr.  Leaven 
said  that  he  should  return  presently, 
but  meanwhile  let  me  ask  you  for  your 
opinion,  Mrs.  John." 

Bessie  John  shook  out  her  muff  and 
regarded  it,  head  on  one  side,  as  if  even 
then  she  needed  time  to  recover  her  co- 
herence from  the  shock. 

"I  hardly  go  so  far  as  Mrs.  Williston 
in  the  matter  of  Miss  Wheaton's  sanity. 
Misled,  misguided,  rather,  I  should 
think."  She  paused.  She  was  able  to 
look  at  Mr.  Reid  without  including  her 
husband  in  her  fringe  of  vision,  and 
[1471 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

she  took  full  advantage  of  that  fact. 
"Could  you  give  us  an  idea,  Mr.  Reid, 
of  how  many  people,  besides  ourselves, 
are  in  a  position  to  join  us  in  any  plan 
we  might  make  for  Miss  Wheaton?" 

The  lawyer  answered  calmly,  with 
tight  lips.  "No,  Mrs.  John,  I  cannot. 
As  I  said,  I  have  written  to  those  I 
thought  possible."  He  referred  to  a 
list.  "Mr.  Huntingdon  is  virtually  in- 
accessible, as  are  several  others.  .  .  . 
Miss  Fort,  I  believe,  has  nothing  left: 
it  is  rather  a  tragic  case.  Miss  Bean  is 
in  hospital,  but  I  hope  to  see  her  soon. 
Mrs.  Corbet  is  too  ill  to  approach. 
Randall  —  Struther  —  um-m.  The  de- 
cision must  be  made  right  here,  among 
us.  We'll  let  the  broken  reeds  go,  for  the 
moment,  I  think.  What  will  you  do?" 
The  question  rang  out  commandingly. 

Mrs.  John  raised  a  deprecating  hand. 
"Mr.  Reid,  I  quite  see  the  gravity  of 
[  148  1 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

the  situation.  Of  course  we  must  all 
face  it.  But  it  is  not  a  question  of  duty, 
is  it?  It  is  a  question  of  sentiment,  and 
of  how  much  we  can  severally  afford  to 
spend  for  sentiment's  sake.  Don't  you 
think  you  are  perhaps  a  little  too  prone 
to  think  of  our  money  as  still  being 
Miss  Wheaton's?  And  of  her  misfortune 
as  being  necessarily  ours  ?  I  see  the  irony 
of  it  all  —  poor  Miss  Wheaton !  I  could 
wish  she  had  never  divided  up  her  wealth. 
But  you  cannot  go  back  on  history. 
Some  of  us  have  taken  on  responsibilities, 
you  see,  that  cannot  be  cast  off  because 
the  poor  lady  has  had  hard  luck.  I  am 
sure  Mrs.  Williston  is  thinking  of  that, 
too.  I  am  quite  ready  to  do  my  part  — 
to  make  sacrifices  to  do  it.  But  I  cannot 
sacrifice  my  children;  nor,  I  fancy,  can 
Mrs.  Williston  sacrifice  her  family.  My 
husband  and  I  are  not  free.  And  I  do 
not  think"  —  she  finished  with  an  im- 
[  149] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

pertinence  so  delicate  that  it  was  al- 
most courteous-  "that  anything  can  be 
gained  by  putting  a  pistol  to  our  heads. 
It  is  so  very  unfortunate,  is  it  not,  that 
the  ones  who  are  free  —  unmarried, 
childless,  footloose  —  have  all  turned  out 
to  be  useless,  irresponsible  ?  —  in  some 
cases,  I'm  afraid,  worse." 

Mr.  Reid  considered  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said  quietly:  "I  ought  to  give 
you  a  chance  to  think  it  over  and  con- 
sult by  yourselves.  In  point  of  fact,  I 
did  not  realize  that  it  would  be  such  a 
complicated  business.  Shall  we  adjourn 
as  soon  as  Mr.  Leaven  comes  back?" 

"By  no  means!"  Bessie  John  was 
very  quick  with  her  reply.  "I  am  sure 
none  of  us  is  so  rich  that  he  doesn't 
know  to  a  penny  what  he  can  afford." 

"Certainly  not."  Mrs.  Williston  had 
put  away  her  handkerchief  and  was 
ready  to  take  up  the  discussion  again. 
[  150J 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"We  have  all,  as  Bessie  John  says, 
taken  responsibilities  upon  us  that  we 
cannot  lightly  shake  off.  I  shall  not  rest 
until  I  have  found  some  place  for  Cor- 
delia Wheaton  to  lay  her  head.  But  I 
cannot  take  bread  out  of  the  mouth  of 
the  righteous."  She  was  as  firm  as  she 
was  vague. 

Philip  John  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window.  There  he  turned  and  stood 
tense,  his  back  against  the  wall.  "The 
money  is  my  wife's,  not  mine.  I  haven't 
any  authority  to  speak.  But  I  want  to 
say,  here  and  now,  that  if  among  us 
we  don't  manage  to  make  Miss  Whea- 
ton comfortable  for  the  rest  of  her  days, 
I  think  we're  a  set  of  skunks."  Then  he 
faced  about  and  stared  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

Bessie  John  had  not  been  prepared 
for  exactly  that.  She  had  expected  Philip 
at  some  point  to  declare  himself,  but 
[  151  1 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

she  had  not  quite  counted  on  being 
called  a  skunk.  Yet,  though  she  was 
sorry  to  be  called  one,  she  did  not  shrink 
from  her  determination  to  be  one  — 
by  her  husband's  definition. 

"Of  course,  I  must  talk  things  over 
with  my  husband,"  she  said.  "But  I 
think  we  can  virtually  decide  every- 
thing now.  Is  Miss  Wheaton  planning 
to  return  to  this  country?" 

"Miss  Wheaton  probably  does  not 
yet  know  of  her  catastrophe.  But  she 
will  know,  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
we  shall  have  to  take  all  steps  for  her. 
If  she  is  to  die  of  poverty  I,  personally, 
should  be  very  unwilling  to  have  her  die 
of  it  in  India.  I  have  assumed  that  she 
will  return.  We  cannot  look  after  her 
very  well  over  there  —  and  I  do  not 
see  any  particular  willingness  on  the 
part  of  her  proteges  to  continue  her  in- 
come so  that  she  can  go  on  with  her 
I  1521 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

life  precisely  as  before.  Besides  —  she 
is  not  young,  and  her  health  is  poor." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  she  must  come 
back.  Don't  you,  Philip?"  Mrs.  John's 
tone  of  solicitude  was  perfect. 

John  did  not  turn  to  answer  her.  His 
reply  was  uttered  into  the  window-pane. 
"I  should  think  so.  But  I'm  not  in  on 
this  discussion."  He  took  a  seat  then  in 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room  and 
began  a  meticulous  inspection  of  some 
law-books  on  the  shelves  near  him. 

"About  how  much  income  has  Miss 
Wheaton  just  been  deprived  of?"  Bessie 
John  took  a  note-book  out  of  her  muff 
and  smiled  at  Mr.  Reid. 

But  Mrs.  Wilh'ston  interrupted.  "I 
don't  think  that  is  the  point.  The  point 
is  how  much  she  absolutely  needs  to 
live  on,  in  America  —  in  some  quiet 
place,  of  course." 

;<You  are  quite  right,  Aunt  Blanche. 
[  153] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

I  should  have  said  that.  Indeed,  you 
are  the  most  practical  of  us  all.  Let  me 
amend  my  question,  Mr.  Reid." 

"I  do  not  feel  that  that  is  for  me  to 
say,"  the  lawyer  answered,  with  silken 
hostility. 

"I  hoped  you  would  advise  us,"  Bessie 
John  protested  sweetly.  "If  we  are  to 
organize  a  fund,  we  must  decide  that 
first  of  all.  Then  Mrs.  Williston  and  I 
could  write  down  how  much  we  could 
afford  to  subscribe,  and  leave  the  list 
with  you  to  be  completed  by  appeals 
to  others.  I  think,  of  course,  that  the 
appeal  should  be  restricted  to  friends 
of  Miss  Wheaton's.  And,  by  the  way, 
aren't  there  several  of  her  friends  who 
are  rich?  They  certainly  ought  to  be 
spoken  to." 

Mr.  Reid  said  nothing.  But  Mrs.  Wii- 
liston  spoke  for  him. 

"Quite  right,  Bessie.  The  rich  should 
[  154] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

give  from  their  abundance.  I  will  do 
what  I  can,  but  I  warn  every  one  that 
I  shall  not  curtail  my  poor  benevolence 
to  worthy  objects  for  the  sake  of  giving 
luxuries  to  Cordelia  Wheaton.  Are  we 
to  take  the  children's  bread  and  cast 
it  unto  the  dogs?" 

If  Mrs.  John  winced  a  little  under  the 
Biblical  question,  she  did  not  show  it 
outwardly.  ;<You  are,  of  course,  an- 
swerable to  your  own  conscience,  Aunt 
Blanche.  I  should  be  quite  as  willing, 
myself,  to  support  Miss  Wheaton  as  if 
she  were  evangelical.  But  then  my  feel- 
ings are  always  getting  the  better  of 
my  principles.  What  I  think  we  must 
all  realize  "  —  she  spoke  as  if  the  bene- 
ficiaries were  all  there,  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses — "  is  that  this  is  a  charity  like 
another.  If  Miss  Wheaton  has  rich  friends 
left,  they  must  be  appealed  to.  And  I 
think  Mr.  Reid  is  the  person  to  do  it." 
[  155  1 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

The  lawyer  fixed  her  with  a  hard  gaze. 
"So  you  think  this  is  a  charity  like  an- 
other, Mrs.  John?" 

Ah,  for  that,  she  had  prepared  herself ! 
It  was  the  crux  of  the  whole  matter. 

;<Yes,  Mr.  Reid,"  she  answered 
gravely.  "I  understand  why  you  do  not 
see  it  in  that  way.  You  think  of  us  as 
having  received  lavishly  from  that  ad- 
mirable woman,  and  as  being  niggardly, 
now,  with  her.  In  other  words,  you  take 
all  this  not  as  charity  on  our  part,  but 
as  a  just  debt.  And  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  why  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  I  think, 
with  you,  that  the  persons  to  be  appealed 
to  first  are  the  people  to  whom  Miss 
Wheaton  has  been  generous,  financially. 
But  I  doubt,  with  all  the  wastage  there 
has  been,  if  we  can  suffice  to  it.  We 
were  poor  —  all  of  us  —  when  Miss 
Wheaton  divided  her  money.  It  was 
divided,  as  you  know,  among  a  great 
[  156] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

many  people.  The  unprincipled  ones 
have  squandered  theirs  already.  A  few 
of  us  looked  to  the  future  and  ordered 
our  lives  somewhat  differently  on  the 
strength  of  it.  Mrs.  Williston,  here,  has 
undoubtedly  pledged  herself  to  do  things 
for  her  nephews  and  to  support  good 
works  which  are  a  part  of  her  religion. 
My  husband  and  I  have  two  children 
now.  We  are  not  in  the  same  case  we 
were  in  when  Miss  Wheaton,  quite  gra- 
tuitously and  unsolicited,  changed  our 
expectations.  None  of  us  could  have 
foreseen  this.  If  you  foresaw  it,  I  think 
you  should  have  warned  us  all  —  that 
is,  if  you  expected  us  to  step  in  and 
correct  the  workings  of  fate.  Life  is  not 
the  same  for  any  of  us  that  it  was  two 
years  ago.  The  next  day,  the  next  month, 
we  could  have  relapsed;  we  could  have 
given  the  money  back.  Now,  most  of  us, 
probably,  have  quite  new  factors  to 
[  157] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

reckon  with.  I  cannot  starve  my  chil- 
dren because  the  money  that  feeds  them 
came  originally  from  Miss  Wheaton, 
who  professed,  then,  not  to  want  it  or 
need  it.  It  was  as  much  an  outright  gift 
as  if  she  had  willed  it  and  died.  All  of 
us  who  were  not  mere  butterflies  have 
accepted  responsibilities  on  that  basis  - 
very  sacred  responsibilities.  There  was 
no  hint  whatever  that  that  was  not  the 
right  thing  for  us  to  do.  And  I  main- 
tain, in  my  own  case,  that  my  children 
are  my  duty  and  that  Miss  Wheaton 
is  a  charity.  As  for  luxuries  —  we  have 
no  luxuries  to  give  up.  I  have  no  jewels, 
no  motor-cars  to  sell,  no  unnecessary 
expenses  to  curtail.  Whatever  I  con- 
tribute will  come  out  of  the  life-blood 
of  my  family.  I  am  willing  and  anxious 
to  contribute  something,  but  I  utterly 
deny  any  one's  right  to  ask  it,  or  any 
one's  reason  in  calling  it  a  duty.  I  do 
[  158J 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

not  know  whether  or  not  I  speak  for 
Mrs.  Williston,  but  I  fancy  I  do.  I  fancy 
I  speak  for  every  one  who  has  not  made 
ducks  and  drakes  of  Miss  Wheaton's 
gift.  As  I  say,  I  will  give  what  I  can; 
but  it  is  so  very  little  that  I  think  you 
will  have  to  go  to  richer  people  in  the 
end.  You  have,  I  understand,  no  au- 
thority from  Miss  Wheaton,  in  any  case. 
If  I  know  anything  about  her,  she  would 
rather  die  where  she  is  than  have  you 
demand  her  money  back  from  the  people 
she  gave  it  to.  Of  course  you  are  right 
to  try  to  plan  for  her,  but  I  think  you 
can  take  it  from  me  that  Miss  Wheaton 
would  rather  you  appealed  to  those  of 
her  friends  who  never  needed  her  money, 
than  to  those  she  knew  desperately  did 
need  it.  And  no  amount  of  consulting 
or  discussion,"  she  finished,  "can  change 
my  firm  conviction  that  I  am  acting 
rightly.  My  husband  seems  to  have  gone 
[  159] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

on  record  as  disagreeing  with  me;  but 
I  hope  that,  now  I  have  explained  my- 
self, he  will  change  his  mind.  In  any 
case,  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  ex- 
plain myself  further  to  him.  .  .  .  Do 
you  think  it  necessary  for  us  to  wait 
longer  for  Mr.  Leaven?  The  sum  I  can 
offer  is  almost  negligible." 

And  she  rose,  fastening  her  furs  about 
her  neck. 

In  point  of  fact,  Bessie  John  had  ex- 
pected more  help  from  Mrs.  Williston 
than  Mrs.  Williston  had  given  her.  She 
had  expected  figures  —  small  ones  - 
from  Aunt  Blanche:  something  named, 
that  she  could  easily  better.  But,  tac- 
tician though  Bessie  thought  herself, 
she  had  worked  in  ignorance.  Aunt 
Blanche,  a  few  months  before,  had  bought 
an  annuity;  and  she  had  spent  this  hour 
like  a  doleful  pendulum,  alternating  be- 
tween the  desire  to  let  herself  out  by 
[  160] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

confessing  to  the  annuity,  and  the  fear 
that,  if  she  confessed,  her  family  would 
learn  of  it  and  cast  off  her  yoke.  The 
bewildered  woman  had  been  trying,  in 
all  the  intervals  of  speech,  to  calculate 
whether,  if  her  niece  and  nephews  did 
know,  they  would  still  continue  to  cling 
to  her  for  the  sake  of  scraps.  They  might; 
but  then  again  the  scraps  might  not 
seem  to  them  worth  clinging  for.  She 
was  not  psychologist  enough  to  know. 
And  she  did  not  wish  to  give  up  the 
throne-room  and  the  deference  —  for 
which  she  paid,  in  cold  cash,  very  little. 
If  Bessie  John  had  known  how  acutely 
Mrs.  Williston  had  been  suffering,  she 
might  easily  have  forgiven  her  for  not 
furnishing  all  the  expected  cues.  As  it 
was,  she  saw  only  that  Aunt  Blanche 
was  not  to  be  counted  on  as  she  had 
thought,  and  therefore  she  rose,  having 
stated  her  own  case  in  full. 
[  161  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

Walter  Leaven's  re-entrance,  however, 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  leave  at 
once,  though  she  did  not  sit  down  again. 
Philip  John  and  Mrs.  Williston  had  also 
risen  to  their  feet. 

Mr.  Reid  seemed  ready  enough  to  have 
them  depart. 

"They  have  said  their  say,  Leaven," 
he  remarked  curtly.  "If  you  can  stay 
on  for  a  little,  I  will  report  to  you." 

But  Mrs.  Williston  could  not  go  out 
of  the  open  door  without  one  vain  effort 
for  the  semblance  of  nobility. 

"It  has  occurred  to  me  just  now," 
she  began,  "that  Cordelia  might  make  a 
joint  household  with  Miss  Bean.  I  am 
not  sure  that  that  would  not  be  the  best 
solution.  Miss  Bean  is  used  to  managing 
on  very  little.  And  Cordelia  is  very  un- 
practical. I  wonder  it  did  not  occur  to 
us  before.  I  dare  say,  if  we  all  contrib- 
uted "  —  she  glanced  austerely  at  Leaven 
[  162] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

—  "  it  could  be  arranged.  Cordelia  has 
been  a  vegetarian  for  years.  Think  it 
over.  I  am  quite  struck  with  it.  Are 
not  you,  my  dear?"  She  turned  to  Mrs. 
John. 

Bessie  gave  her  one  queer  little  ap- 
palled glance,  then  bit  her  lip.  "I  have 
said  everything  that  I  have  to  say  to- 
day." She  bowed  to  Mr.  Reid  and  beck- 
oned to  her  husband.  Aunt  Blanche  had 
certainly  not  played  the  game. 

Mrs.  Williston,  flushed  with  her  own 
cleverness,  was  almost  ready  to  linger. 
But  Walter  Leaven,  not  Mr.  Reid,  took 
it  upon  himself  to  answer  her. 

"I  don't  know  who  Miss  Bean  is,"  he 
said  coldly,  "but  I  am  quite  sure  she  is 
not  fit  for  Cordelia  to  live  with.  Cer- 
tainly not  if  she  was  at  Cordelia's  house 
that  day."  The  expression  of  his  mouth 
seemed  to  dispose  of  Mrs.  Williston  both 
in  this  world  and  in  the  next.  "I  have 
[  163] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

cabled  to  Huntingdon,"  he  went  on, 
turning  to  Mr.  Reid.  The  others  might 
listen  if  they  chose,  but  he  seemed  not 
even  to  be  aware  of  that.  "Of  course 
he'll  look  after  her  at  that  end  —  get 
her  on  to  a  ship.  And  I  will  meet  her  at 
San  Francisco." 

Mrs.  Williston  looked  as  if  she  wished 
to  re-enter  the  conference,  but  Bessie 
John  pushed  her  gently  towards  the 
door.  Mrs.  John  did  not  even  bow  to 
Leaven  as  she  left  the  office,  but  her 
husband,  silently  following  her,  stopped 
an  instant  and  held  out  his  hand  to  him. 
Leaven,  taken  by  surprise,  did  not 
manage  to  grasp  John's  hand  without 
awkwardness.  You  would  have  said  that 
he  found  himself  having  an  inexplicable 
little  interlude  with  the  furniture.  But 
the  hands  met,  somehow,  and  John  and 
the  two  women  got  out. 

"I  am  engaged,  Boomer,"  said  Mr. 
I  164  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

Reid.  The  door  was  closed  firmly,  and 
the  lawyer  and  Leaven  faced  each  other 
intimately  across  the  table. 


[  1651 


IX 

I'm  in,"  Bessie  John  mur- 
mured  to  the  echo  of  the  maid's 
retreating  footsteps,  "but  why  in  the 
world  didn't  you  say  I  was  out?  Why 
don't  you  always  say  'out'  to  Aunt 
Blanche?  But  one  has  to  pay  more  for 
servants  who  can  do  that  with  the  proper 
air.  I  wonder  why?  You'd  think  it  was 
an  easy  accomplishment  to  acquire.  Stella 
did  it  beautifully  —  she  never  made  a 
mistake  —  but  she  wouldn't  do  a  thing 
for  the  twinnies  when  Nurse  was  out, 
and  she  wanted  her  wages  raised  every 
month.  A  social  sense  below  stairs  comes 
very  high.  Nurse's  social  sense  is  all  we 
can  afford.  I  have  to  go  without  one, 
myself,  to  pay  for  hers.  As  for  you,  dar- 
ling "  —  Philip  John  was  in  the  room, 
[  166  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

watching  her  idly  as  she  prepared  her- 
self to  descend  -  "you  never  had  one, 
did  you?  Yours  are  the  manners  of  the 
original  theocracy.  A  Levite  who  mar- 
ried into  one  of  the  Lost  Tribes.  Shock- 
ing!" 

She  rubbed  her  chin  on  the  top  of 
his  head  as  she  passed  him. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  not  wanting 
to  see  that  dreadful  old  woman,"  he 
offered  genially.  "Want  me  to  come 
down  and  help?" 

"You  don't  help,  Pilly-Winky."  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Aunt  Blanche 
is  afraid  of  you.  She  knows  you're  a 
Christian,  and  that  you  know  she  isn't. 
I  mean,  theology  aside,  you're  the  real 
thing;  and,  if  you  ask  my  opinion,  I 
don't  believe  Aunt  Blanche  will  get  a 
look-in  on  the  Day  of  Judgment." 

"I  fancy  that's  too  hard  on  her.  I 
don't  think  much  of  her  mental  proc- 
[  167  1 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

esses,  but  she  probably   acts  according 
to  her  lights." 

"Then  her  light  is  a  leaky  gas-jet. 
Oh,  of  course,  she  doesn't  know  what 
a  pig  she  is.  But,  you  see,  when  you're 
about,  she  dimly  discerns  the  sty.  So 
she  doesn't  let  herself  go.  And  she's  no 
fun  at  all  unless  she  does.  If  I've  got  to 
see  her,  I  want  to  get  comedy  out  of 
it." 

Mrs.  John,  still  reluctant,  lingered  a 
little  on  the  threshold. 

"Why  did  you  back  her  up,  Bess?" 
The  question  was  reminiscent;  it  re- 
ferred to  events  of  nearly  a  year  be- 
fore, when  the  Johns  and  at  least  one 
other  had  been  very  uncomfortable  in 
Mr.  Reid's  office.  But  Bessie  John  had 
always  known  it  would  some  day  be 
asked,  and  she  took  time  to  answer  it. 

"I  didn't,  Philip.  She  backed  me  up. 
Which  is  a  very  different  matter." 
[  168] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

Then  she  went,  for  she  did  not  care 
to  discuss  it  further  now.  Bessie  John 
had  been  miraculously  preserved,  at  that 
time,  from  a  serious  disagreement  with 
her  husband;  preserved,  as  she  piously 
acknowledged  to  herself,  by  the  star- 
tling intervention  of  Walter  Leaven.  He 
had  driven  them  all  violently  forth  from 
any  participation  in  Miss  Wheaton's 
affairs,  had  taken  over  the  whole  situa- 
tion himself  at  once,  so  that  their  un- 
comfortable hour  need  positively  never 
have  been.  He  would  permit  no  "sub- 
scriptions" even  from  the  Johns  or  Mrs. 
Williston;  and  this  information  had  been 
passed  on  to  them  so  quickly  by  Mr. 
Reid  that  Bessie  had  never  had  to  quarrel 
with  her  husband  over  the  amount.  No 
one  knew,  not  even  John,  how  grateful 
Bessie  was  to  be  relieved  of  such  a  neces- 
sity. She  did  not  call  Leaven  a  saint, 
but  she  was  not  far  from  thinking  him 
[  169] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

an  angel.  He  had  seemed  to  intervene, 
that  is,  supernaturally.  Thanks  to  Leaven, 
they  had  only  come  to  the  brink  of 
quarrelling;  they  had  never  had  really 
to  begin.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  been 
anxious  to;  and,  as  far  as  she  could  see, 
they  never,  never  would  have  to,  now. 

Bessie  was  dressed  in  black,  and  she 
and  Mrs.  Williston  sat  sombrely  op- 
posite each  other  in  the  sea-captain's 
front  parlor. 

"Good  of  you  to  come  out  on  a  holi- 
day, when  your  family  must  be  wanting 
you  at  home,'*  Bessie  began,  not  too 
amiably. 

Mrs.  Williston  shook  her  head.  "I 
sometimes  feel  that  I  am  a  check  on 
their  high  spirits.  Their  ways  are  not 
my  ways." 

"I  should  have  thought  they  did 
their  best."  Bessie  knew  the  reply  was 
not  the  right  one;  but  she  was  annoyed 
[  170] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

that  Aunt  Blanche  should  have  turned 
up  on  one  of  Philip's  rare  days  of  free- 
dom. 

Mrs.  John's  tone  had  been  colorless 
enough,  but  Mrs.  Willis  ton  scented 
prejudice  in  it.  Irony  she  was  incapable 
of  recognizing  —  which  may  have  been 
why  Bessie  John  kept  up  the  intimacy. 
With  prices  where  they  were,  a  wife 
and  mother  had  to  take  her  pleasure 
where  she  could  get  it  cheapest. 

"Bessie,  I  don't  believe  you  know 
what  I  have  to  bear.  I  have  no  com- 
plaint to  make  —  I  am  not  a  complain- 
ing person  —  but  I  am  sensitive,  and  to 
have  my  most  serious  advice  disregarded, 
completely  disregarded  ..."  Her  hand- 
kerchief came  out  of  her  bag. 

"Oh  .  .  .  they  seem  so  courteous, 
Aunt  Blanche."  Her  vivid  memories  of 
that  slavish  household  forced  the  speech 
from  her. 

[1711 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

"Is  this  generation  ever  courteous? 
But,  of  course,  I  make  allowances  for 
that.  I  do  not  complain,  I  tell  you  — 
you  will  never  find  me  complaining  — 
but  it  is  hard  not  to  be  loved  by  one's 
own.  I  pray  you  may  never  have  it  to 
bear."  She  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  had 
the  vision  of  basely  ungrateful  grown- 
up twins.  "They  respect  me,  but  I  do 
not  feel  I  have  their  confidence.  I  have 
to  ask  questions.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I 
wonder  if  all  I  have  done  for  them  has 
been  in  vain.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
that  the  most  unselfish  persons  get  the 
least  gratitude  ?  " 

"Yes,  often."  Bessie's  voice  was  quite 
empty  of  irony  this  time. 

"But  that  is  not  what  I  came  to  talk 
about,"  Mrs.  Williston  went  on.  "I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  go  and  see  Cordelia 
Wheaton.  You  know  she  is  very  ill.  I 
have  purposely  kept  away  for  a  good 

[  172] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

many  weeks.  When  she  first  came  back, 
I  meant  to  see  her  often.  I  thought  that 
the  countenance  of  an  old  friend  might 
be  welcome.  Especially  an  old  friend 
who,  if  I  do  say  it,  has  kept  the  respect 
of  a  modest  and  godly  circle.  I  said  to 
myself:  *  Blanche  Williston,  isn't  it  your 
duty  to  go  over  into  Macedonia  and 
help?'  It  wasn't  easy.  I  have  grown 
used  to  working  with  sympathetic  Chris- 
tian souls  —  our  board  meetings  are 
more  like  prayer-meetings,  Bessie,  than 
mere  business  occasions.  But  I  said: 
perhaps  it  is  too  pleasant  for  me,  too 
easy  where  I  am;  perhaps  I  ought  to 
go  into  the  outer  darkness  and  find 
Cordelia.  And  I  tried.  I  made  my  sacri- 
fices. I  refused  the  chairmanship  of  the 
executive  committee  of  our  new  church 
auxiliary  to  the  Liberian  Religious  Aid, 
because  I  felt  that  at  any  time  of  the 
day  or  night  I  might  be  called  on  to 
[  173] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

wrestle  for  Cordelia's  soul.  .  .  .  And 
besides,  Bessie "  -  she  bent  forward, 
almost  whispering  -  "I  said  to  my- 
self: that  poor  misguided  creature  shall 
know  that  there  is  one  respectable 
woman  who  does  not  avoid  her;  who 
goes  to  her,  as  a  friend,  in  broad  day- 
light." 

"But  what  do  you  mean,  Aunt 
Blanche?"  Mrs.  John  had  not  seen 
Mrs.  Williston  for  some  time,  to  be 
sure,  but  certainly  it  would  take  dec- 
ades to  brew  a  scandal  about  poor, 
broken  Cordelia  Wheaton. 

"Why,  surely  you  knew,  Bessie.  Miss 
Bean  would  have  taken  her  in,  I  believe, 
if  she  had  been  well  paid.  They  could 
have  done  light  housekeeping  somewhere. 
It  was  what  I  originally  suggested,  if 
you  remember.  I  don't  know  how  long 
it  would  have  lasted,  but  it  would  have 
been  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  But 
[1741 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

Cordelia's  evil  genius  stepped  in  and 
took  her  to  himself.  Surely  you  knew, 
Bessie  —  if  you  did  not,  you  have  been 
very  remiss  —  that  for  three  months 
Cordelia  has  been  living  with  Mr. 
Leaven." 

"Oh,  that!"  Bessie  John  gave  a  light 
sigh  of  disappointment.  "Why,  naturally 
I've  known  that,  ever  since  it  happened. 
I  thought  you  were  talking  about  a 
scandal.  'Why  have  you  got  such  big 
teeth,  grandmother  ? ' 

Mrs.  Williston  glared  at  her  silently. 

"It's  out  of  'Red  Riding  Hood/  Aunt 
Blanche."  Bessie  grew  impatient.  "I 
mean,  I  honestly  thought  for  a  minute 
that  Miss  Wheaton  had  given  you  some 
reason  to  be  shocked.  I  didn't  know 
but  she  had  thrown  a  bronze  Buddha  at 
you." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Bessie 
John,  that  you  think  Cordelia  Wheaton 
[  175] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

should  live  with  a  man  she  is  not  mar- 
ried to?" 

Mrs.  John  regarded  her  caller  with 
open  mouth.  Then  she  began  to  giggle. 
The  giggle  grew  on  her,  turned  to  an 
hysterical  laugh.  It  was  a  moment  or 
two  before  she  could  speak.  Mrs.  Willis- 
ton  had  never  recovered  from  the  glare, 
and  now  the  glare  showed  signs  of  in- 
tensifying itself.  Bessie  John  put  up  a 
hand  to  plead  for  silence  until  she  was 
fit  to  speak. 

"Why --why  — Aunt  Blanche!"  she 
cried  feebly.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  think  there  is  anything  shock- 
ing in  that?  Why,  they're  both  on  the 
edge  of  the  grave." 

"So  am  I  on  the  edge  of  the  grave, 
as  you  so  politely  put  it,  Bessie.  But  I 
think  you  would  be  shocked  if  I  went 
to  live  with  Walter  Leaven." 

Mrs.  John's  newly  won  gravity  forsook 
[  176] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

her.  She  giggled  again.  "So  I  should, 
Aunt  Blanche.  Awfully  shocked.  I  should 
think  you  were  Messalina,  no  less.  You 
must  admit  that,  when  you've  appeared 
to  hate  him  so  many  years,  it  would 
give  rise  to  the  gravest  suspicions  — 
clandestine  meetings  no  longer  to  be 
borne:  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  should 
get  out  a  warrant  at  once  and  hurry 
you  off  to  do  light  housekeeping  with 
old  Miss  Bean/* 

"You  have  a  very  unpleasant  vein  of 
humor,  Bessie." 

"So  I  have.  So  I  have.  Forgive  me, 
Aunt  Blanche."  Mrs.  John  wiped  her 
eyes  in  sign  of  contrition.  "But  I  think 
it  would  dry  up  without  you.  .  .  .  Only, 
seriously,  why  can't  you  put  all  that 
silly  stuff  out  of  your  head?" 

Mrs.  Williston's  reply  was  unexpectedly 
mild.  "I  don't  say  there  is  anything 
torong,  Bessie.  I  sincerely  hope  there 
[  177  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

isn't.  But  I  do  not  believe  in  defying 
the  laws  of  God  and  man.  I  should  sup- 
pose they  were  both  past  the  tempta- 
tions of  youth.  But  what  reason  is  there, 
except  human  perversity,  for  their  not 
marrying?" 

"About  a  hundred,  I  should  imagine, 
Aunt  Blanche.  In  the  first  place,  it 
would  look  so  silly.  In  the  second,  there's 
Miss  Wheaton's  religion,  isn't  there? 
And  in  the  third  place,  who  in  the  world 
knows  or  cares?  I  think  it's  quite  de- 
lightful of  them." 

"I  shouldn't  have  expected  you  to 
find  three  immoral  reasons  for  defend- 
ing them,  Bessie." 

Mrs.  John  shook  herself  together  and 
spoke  seriously.  "I'm  not  immoral,  as 
you  well  know.  I  merely  think  it's  aw- 
fully unimportant.  Miss  Wheaton  weighs 
three  hundred  pounds,  and  she's  slowly 
dying.  As  for  Mr.  Leaven,  he's  not  a 
[  178] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

man,  in  that  sense:  he's  a  very  well 
executed  bronze.  I  think  it's  too  bad  of 
you  to  worry.  It's  just  because  they 
have  so  little,  either  of  them,  to  do  with 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  that 
they  are  so  touching*.  For  I  find  them 
touching.  So  does  Philip,  even  more  than 
I  do.  And  Phil  is  six  times  as  moral  as  any 
of  us.  Cheer  up !  I  know  you've  taken  a 
perverted  sort  of  pleasure  in  thinking 
how  unconventional  they  are,  but  a 
woman  of  your  worldly  experience  knows 
there's  nothing  in  it.  I  wouldn't  bother 
with  Miss  Wheaton,  if  I  were  you.  I'd 
go  for  Liberia  with  both  hands  and 
both  feet.  I  dare  say  it  does  shock  you 
a  little  "  — she  relented  to  that  extent  — 
"but  you've  really  only  to  put  your  mind 
on  it  to  see  that  there  are  other  things 
that  need  your  mind  more." 

Mrs.   Williston  gathered  up  her  furs 
for  departure.   "I  came  to  ask  if  you 
[  H9  } 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

wouldn't  call  on  Cordelia  with  me,"  she 
began,  "but  I  don't  think  you  are  in 
the  mood  to  go." 

"No,  I  couldn't  go  with  you  to-day. 
I  will  some  time,  perhaps.  But  I  want 
to  say  one  thing."  She  leaned  forward. 
"If  you  go  and  insult  that  poor  old 
lady,  you'll  be  doing  a  very  unkind 
thing.  I  truly  hope  you  won't.  I  believe 
she's  hardly  aware  of  this  world  at  all. 
Don't  you  go  poking  it  in  her  face." 
She  put  a  caressing  tone  into  her  voice 
that  redeemed  her  speech  from  imper- 
tinence. 

"It  is  always  the  business  of  a  Chris- 
tian woman  -  '  began  Mrs.  Williston. 

Mrs.  John  stood  up  and  folded  her 
arms,  looking  down  on  her  visitor. 
"Umph !  Let's  get  rid  of  this,"  she  mut- 
tered. "Aunt  Blanche,  answer  me  one 
question.  Why  didn't  you  make  some 
protest  when  Mr.  Reid  first  told  you? 
I  180] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

That  was  the  time  to  stop  it  —  before 
it  had  happened.  You  didn't  say  a  word, 
then,  about  the  laws  either  of  God  or 
of  man." 

"I  was  bewildered,  Bessie.  I  was  hurt 
that  my  advice  was  scorned.  For  the 
moment  I  was  helpless." 

"  You  were  relieved,  Aunt  Blanche."  The 
words  came  quietly,  like  a  verdict.  "We 
all  were,  for  we  were  all  in  the  same 
boat.  You  were  so  glad  to  be  ordered  off 
the  premises  that  you  didn't  dare  open 
your  lips  for  fear  they  would  say  *  Thank 
God ! '  It's  only  now  —  now  that  you 
know  that  Walter  Leaven  wouldn't  let 
one  of  us  touch  Cordelia  Wheaton  if 
he  had  to  poison  us  on  the  threshold  — 
that  you  let  yourself  think  of  such  things. 
If  you  really  think  them,  you  ought  to 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  take  her 
away.  Nothing  would  induce  you  to 
take  her  away,  even  if  she'd  come.  There- 
[181] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

fore  you  ought  to  be  silent.  I  don't  blame 
you  for  being  willing  to  leave  her  where 
she  is,  but  as  long  as  you  do  you'll  have 
to  let  scandal  alone." 

"I  will  offer  to  take  her  away,  if  you 
think  that  right."  Mrs.  Williston  was 
spurred  to  self-defence. 

Mrs.  John  shook  her  head.  "Too 
cheap  and  easy,  Aunt  Blanche.  She's 
going  to  die  where  she  is.  You  wouldn't 
offer  if  you  thought  they'd  listen  to  you. 
No:  that  doesn't  let  you  out.  It's  got 
to  stop." 

"Do  you  think  I  would  spread  such 
a  thing?" 

"Wouldn't  trust  you  a  bit,  my  dear" 
(Bessie's  voice  was  honey,  with  a  taint 
of  aloes),  "if  you  once  got  the  bit  in  your 
teeth.  But  I  think  you'll  presently  see 
that  you'd  only  get  yourself  laughed  at 
—  or  perhaps  very,  very  severely  criti- 
cised." Then  Bessie  John  condescended 
[  182] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

to  imitate  the  augurs.  "Aunt  Blanche, 
Walter  Leaven  has  saved  all  our  faces. 
You  and  I  may  know  we  were  right; 
but  he  is  making  it  possible  for  us  to 
look  pretty.  Don't  spoil  it." 

"I  don't  feel  pretty  —  letting  one  of 
my  oldest  friends  do  such  an  extraor- 
dinary thing.  It  is  bound  to  reflect  on 
me,  when  people  come  to  realize.  For  I 
shall  always  keep  up  with  Cordelia," 
she  finished  austerely. 

:'You  are  brave,  Aunt  Blanche.  You 
trust  in  God  and  keep  your  powder  dry, 
don't  you?"  Bessie  asked  irrelevantly. 
"But  whether  you  think  you  look  pretty 
or  not,  I  can  tell  you  that  you  would 
have  looked  downright  ugly  if  Miss 
Wheaton  were  starving  on  Miss  Bean's 
light  housekeeping.  So  should  I.  And 
I'm  very  grateful  for  not  having  to  look 
ugly.  We  should  have  had  perfectly 
good  consciences,  both  of  us;  but  it  is 
[  183] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

very  pleasant  to  have  Walter  Leaven 
preserve  our  complexions  as  well." 

Mrs.  Williston  so  obviously  made  no 
headway  with  the  metaphor  that  Mrs. 
John  changed  the  subject. 

"It's  perfectly  all  right,  so  long  as 
you  don't  mix  up  in  it,"  she  declared. 
"Of  course,  it  will  be  a  great  relief  when 
Miss  Wheaton  dies " 

"Bessie!"  Mrs.  Williston  was  on  very 
intimate  terms  with  death  in  the  ab- 
stract, but  she  was  incapable  of  men- 
tioning the  demise  of  an  individual  save 
with  proper  deprecation. 

"Well,  won't  it?  When  she's  got  to 
suffer  as  she  probably  has?  Do  you  sup- 
pose it's  very  gay  for  her  —  or  for  him, 
either?  Oh,  well,  let's  not  discuss  it 
further.  ...  I  really  can't  go  with 
you  to-day,  Aunt  Blanche.  But  I'll 
pay  my  respects  some  time  along.  The 
twins  have  had  whooping-cough,  you 
[  184] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

know.  I've  been  very  much  occupied  at 
home." 

Mrs.  Williston  rose.  "I  shouldn't  have 
wanted  you  in  any  case,  Bessie.  Not 
after  the  light  way  you  have  been  talk- 
ing. You  didn't  talk  that  way  about 
your  friend  —  the  little  artist-girl." 

"Oh,  Julie  Fort?  No,  I  didn't.  But 
there's  all  the  difference  in  the  world, 
you  see.  Miss  Wheaton  has  done  noth- 
ing. The  very  idea  is  too  grotesque. 
Only  your  Gothic  mind  could  harbor  it. 
Whereas,  Julie  has  done  —  everything." 

"Is  all  her  money  gone?"  Mrs.  Wil- 
liston hovered  ghoulishly  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

"So  I  heard.  The  man  she  ran  off 
with  had  a  little,  I  believe." 

"Are  they  married?  Was  there  a 
child?" 

But  Bessie  John's  patience  was  out- 
worn. "No,  there  was  no  child.  I  heard 
[  185  J 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

that  they  had  quarrelled.  I  heard  a  lot 
of  horrid  things.  I  don't  want  to  dis- 
cuss Julie,  Aunt  Blanche.  It's  all  too 
unpleasant." 

"Does  Cordelia  know?"  The  ghoul 
would  not  go. 

"Why   should   she?   And   if  you   tell 
her"    -  Bessie  John  threw  her  head  back 
-"then  riltelir 

"Tell  what?"  Mrs.  Williston's  voice 
was  sharp. 

"  Your  family  —  about  your  annuity." 

"My  annuity?  What  do  you  mean?" 

Mrs.  John  folded  her  arms  and  stood 
very  straight.  "I  admit  that  it's  only  a 
shrewd  guess.  But  I  have  put  a  lot  of 
things  together,  and  I'm  pretty  sure. 
Anyhow,  your  family  could  jolly  well 
find  out  —  and  they  would." 

She  loathed  such  talk,  really;  but, 
most  of  all  just  then,  she  loathed  Aunt 
Blanche. 

I  186] 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"All  I  mean  is  that  Miss  Wheaton  is 
to  be  left  in  peace."  The  words  were 
firm,  but  she  ended  with  a  tired  sigh. 

"If  you  think  it  would  grieve  Cor- 
delia .  .  ." 

"I  see  you  get  me,  Aunt  Blanche. 
Good-bye."  And  this  time  Bessie  turned 
her  back.  But  she  rang  for  the  parlor- 
maid, and  saw,  across  the  twilight  of 
the  big  room,  the  servant  go  with  Mrs. 
Williston  to  her  cab. 

"Woo-oof!"  she  murmured  as  she 
saw  the  cab  drive  away.  There  was  im- 
measurable disgust  in  her  tone. 

"Philip!"  He  loomed  at  the  top  of 
the  staircase  as  she  mounted.  "Next 
time  I  will  let  you  come  down.  Or  rather, 
if  Annie  can't  learn  always  to  say  'out' 
to  Aunt  Blanche,  she'll  have  to  go. 
New  York  might  as  well  have  open 
sewers  as  to  have  that  woman  at 
large." 

[1871 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

Arm  in  arm  they  went  back  into 
Bessie's  room. 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"She  wants  to  start  a  scandal  about 
poor  old  Miss  Wheaton." 

"Miss  Wheaton?  But—"  Philip  John 
burst  into  laughter. 

"That's  what  I  told  her.  But  I  had 
to  threaten  her  in  the  end." 

"How  did  you  manage  it?" 

"Told  her  I'd  accuse  her,  to  her  family, 
of  an  annuity." 

"But  you  don't  know  if  she  has  one." 

"I  didn't.  But  I  do  now.  Because 
she  crumbled  at  once.  And  I  hinted  to 
her  that  we  all  had  good  cause  to  be 
grateful  to  Walter  Leaven.  She  ended 
by  wanting  to  know  all  about  Julie 
Fort  —  that  little  rotter." 

"Did  you  tell  her  the  girl  had  gone 
utterly  to  the  bad?" 

"Not  precisely.  That  is,  I  didn't 
[  188] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

ravish  her  ears  with  any  details.  I 
simply  couldn't:  they  would  have  de- 
lighted the  old  woman  so.  Her  mouth 
was  the  greediest  thing,  while  she 
waited." 

"You  know  I  don't  believe,  Bess"  — 
John  meditated  amid  smoke-spirals  — 
"that  your  delightful  Aunt  Blanche 
really  has  pornographic  tastes.  I  don't 
understand  you:  you  'Aunt  Blanche' 
her,  and  then  you  call  her  the  devil  in 
person." 

"Pornographic  tastes?  Um  —  perhaps 
not.  She'd  be  just  as  pleased  with  de- 
lirium tremens.  That's  why  I  hate  re- 
formers: they  have  such  catholic  lusts. 
Any  evil,  almost,  will  satisfy  them.  Of 
course,  if  the  world  weren't  rotten,  they'd 
lose  their  blessed  jobs,  and  they  know 
it.  Aunt  Blanche  isn't  capable  of  any- 
thing except  reforming  the  world.  I  never 
saw  a  reformer  yet  who  would  be  trusted 
[  189] 


A  CHANGE   OF   AIR 

to  do  anything  in  a  world  that  was 
decent  already.  They'd  be  supported 
by  the  state  as  incompetents.  Aunt 
Blanche  couldn't  make  herself  normally 
useful  in  any  capacity  whatever:  she 
hasn't  the  wit.  Therefore  she  is  given 
the  thunderbolts  of  Jove  to  play  with." 

"As  usual,  my  dear  girl,  you're  far 
too  sweeping." 

"Of  course  I  am.  No  fun,  if  you  don't 
state  your  position  with  violence.  .  .  . 
But  I  told  her  she  ought  to  get  down 
on  her  knees  to  old  Walter  Leaven," 
Bessie  finished  resolutely. 

"Why?"  Philip  John  was  quiet  and 
curious. 

"Because"  —  Bessie  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  effort  —  "  because  he  saved 
our  faces." 

"Ah?" 

"Yes,  Philip.  I  always  meant  to  say 
that  to  you.  That's  all  I  mean,  by  the 
f  190  1 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

way.  I  was  right,  and  I  should  have 
stuck  to  it.  I  would  never  have  done 
one  bit  more  than  I  planned  to  do  that 
day  in  Mr.  Reid's  office.  Never.  But  it 
wouldn't  have  looked  nice.  No,  it 
wouldn't.  I  can't  agree  with  you  any 
farther  than  that.  But  just  so  far,  I  do. 
Thank  heaven,  it  isn't  an  issue  now. 
But  probably  I  owe  it  to  you  to  say  that, 
to  that  extent  —  it  isn't  very  far,  by 
the  way  —  I'm  with  you.  I  don't  want 
to  discuss  it  —  not  ever,  Philip.  Not 
now,  even.  We'll  drop  it  right  there." 

John  searched  her  eyes  with  his  own. 
"Right  there?  Sure  you  don't  want  to 
go  a  little  farther?" 

"Perfectly  sure.  So  sure  that  I'm  in- 
ordinately grateful  to  Mr.  Leaven.  It 
would  have  been  beastly  for  both  of 
us." 

"Why  isn't  it  still  rather  beastly,  if 
we  don't  agree?" 

[  191] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

"Because  we  don't  have  to  discuss  it. 
And  on  every  other  point  in  the  world 
we  do  agree,  don't  we?  So  we  can  drop 
it  out  of  sight  —  like  Catholics  who 
marry  Protestants  and  live  happily  ever 
after.  Some  do,  you  know." 

Philip  John  smiled,  very  gently  and 
tolerantly.  Then  he  let  the  whole  ques- 
tion slip  forever  into  the  limbo  of  events 
that  never  come  to  birth. 

"It  would  make  me  very  miserable  to 
quarrel  with  you,  Bess.  I'm  with  you  in 
hoping  we  shall  never  have  to.  After 
all,  married  folk  can't  afford  it." 

"And  'after  all'  -she  pleaded  with 
him  a  little-  "^is  there  any  honor  in 
human  relations  more  vital  than  the 
honor  of  marriage  and  of  parenthood? 
If  there  is,  I  can't  see  it,  that's  all." 

Philip  John  patted  her  hand  gently, 
but  did  not  reply.  Bessie,  too,  hushed 
her  instinct  for  perfection,  swathing  it 
[  1921 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

in  a  rich  robe  of  compromise.  That  was 
all  she  could  do,  she  saw  quite  clearly. 
And  who  should  say  the  richness  of  the 
robe  was  not,  in  its  way,  true  homage 
to  the  sleeping  creature  ?  Well  —  so  far 
as  she  could  contrive  it,  the  sleeping 
creature  should  lie  in  state.  She  returned 
the  pressure  of  her  husband's  hand. 
"I'm  going  up  to  the  nursery,"  she  said. 
"Better  come  along." 


[  193] 


THE  view  from  Walter  Leaven's 
rooms  grew,  in  a  sense,  more  sor- 
did as  spring  advanced.  The  windows 
of  the  poor,  hermetically  sealed  in  winter, 
opened  as  the  cold  moderated.  Heads 
and  mattresses,  milk  bottles  and  green 
groceries,  peopled  the  window-sills  anew. 
Here  and  there,  through  larger  open- 
ings, machinery  and  its  servants  were 
revealed  to  him.  But  he  found  his  re- 
payment in  a  lifted  sky,  remoter,  bluer, 
and  in  a  freer  air,  friendly,  not  yet  grown 
brutal  with  heat. 

He  had  rented  a  third  room,  across 
the  hall,  to  go  with  his  own  two  —  a 
cheerless  little  apartment  that  never 
held  a  tenant  long.  Of  this  he  made  his 
own  bedroom,  furnishing  his  former 
[  194  ] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

chamber  for  Cordelia  Wheaton.  When 
he  learned  from  Jim  Huntingdon's  long 
cablegram  that  Miss  Wheaton  was  really 
ill,  he  had  gone  about  his  feverish  ar- 
rangements. He  did  not  know  in  what 
shape  he  might  find  her,  but  he  took  it 
that  he  was  to  receive  her  from  Hunt- 
ingdon at  San  Francisco,  and  to  bring 
her  home  to  die  of  her  slow  heart-affec- 
tion —  without,  he  hoped,  too  much 
pain.  Leaven  had  told  Mr.  Reid,  on 
the  very  day  of  the  abortive  conference, 
that  Cordelia's  support  was  to  be  his 
affair  and  his  only.  She  might  be  given 
to  understand  what  Mr.  Reid  liked, 
but  not  a  penny  should  come  to  her 
from  any  of  that  crew. 

"Of  course,  I  should  have  given  most 
of  it  myself,"  Reid  had  growled,  "but 
I  wasn't  going  to  tell  them  so." 

"I  know,  I  know.  I  should  have  been 
sure  of  it.  But  this  is  exclusively  my 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

affair,"  Leaven  had  replied  quietly.  The 
lawyer  knew  a  resolve  when  he  saw 
one,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  change 
Leaven's  mind.  That  was  a  mineral 
substance,  not  easily  impressed. 

When  Leaven  received  Cordelia  from 
Huntingdon's  kind,  impatient  hands,  he 
saw  how  well  he  had  guessed.  It  was 
plain  that  Cordelia  must  be  accom- 
panied through  the  remaining  months; 
that  her  vagueness  must  find  guiding 
hands  on  every  side.  The  shred  of  her 
wealth  that  he  possessed  (though  he  had 
kept  it  intact,  like  a  relic)  would  not 
suffice  to  such  a  household  as  she  would 
need  if  the  guiding  hands  were  to  be 
mercenary  ones.  Nor  should  the  hands 
be  those  of  the  old  sempstress  Mrs. 
Williston  had  mentioned  —  irreverent, 
with  claws  inset.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  would 
take  her  to  himself.  He  would  bring 
her  home,  with  no  flourish,  with  a  quiet 
[  196] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

taking  for  granted  of  the  situation  which 
must  convince.  Luckily  —  he  had  time 
to  learn,  in  the  few  hours  between 
Huntingdon's  arrival  and  his  return,  by 
another  ship,  to  the  passionate  and 
sacred  continent  —  Miss  Wheaton  was 
aware  of  her  own  physical  condition.  An 
American  doctor  in  Hong  Kong  had 
looked  her  over  and  reported  explicitly. 
He  had  only  to  provide  for  her  comfort 
as  relentlessly  and  uncommunicatively  as 
a  trained  nurse. 

He  had  brought  her,  then,  to  his  high- 
perched  rooms,  but  not  as  a  burden;  as 
if,  rather,  the  rooms  had  been  merely 
waiting  through  her  exile;  as  if  the 
crowded  objects  had  been  heirlooms  of 
her  own.  A  little  maid-servant  came  in 
by  day  to  wait  on  Cordelia  and  fetch 
and  serve  her  food.  It  was  like  purvey- 
ing for  a  crippled  bird:  a  little  water, 
a  few  grains  of  corn.  Leaven  stuck  to  his 
[  197] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

dreary    boarding-house.    A    nurse    slept 
at  night  in  the  big  sitting-room. 

And  what  of  Cordelia  Wheaton? 
Leaven  himself  could  not  guess  what 
lay  beneath  her  quietness.  Not  once 
had  she  questioned;  not  once  had  she 
protested;  and  he  hardly  knew  whether 
she  had  cynically  grasped  the  situation, 
or  whether  she  was  too  sunk  in  fatalism 
to  wonder  —  or  whether  she  merely  had 
incomparably  good  manners.  Whichever 
it  was,  it  was  clear  that  she  trusted  him; 
that  she  was  willing,  if  not  content, 
to  let  him  be  her  go-between  with  the 
world.  Did  the  gray  hue  of  death  strike 
inward  to  her  very  heart?  He  could 
not  say.  He  drew  her  sometimes  to  talk 
of  life  in  Benares,  its  strange  mingling 
of  conventual  and  private  mysticism; 
but  she  was  unready  with  detail,  over- 
dainty,  it  seemed,  for  concreteness.  Faint 
implications  of  a  point  of  view  were 
I  198] 


A    CHANGE    OF    AIR 

there;  hints  of  hierarchies  no  Occidental 
could  recognize,  and  yet  of  a  democracy 
positively  biologic,  which  ignored  not 
only  classes  but  species.  She  did  not 
preach;  she  only  assumed  and,  ever  so 
faintly,  alluded.  "Snake  and  man" 
thus  he  had  once  summed  up  her  blas- 
phemy against  civilization.  Yet  how 
gracefully  she  avoided  insulting  his  hu- 
manism, save  with  the  deep  crease  of 
her  smile !  She  was  a  very  great  lady, 
in  spite  of  all.  Sometimes  they  drifted 
into  reminiscence;  like  a  pedlar,  he  would 
pull  something  out  of  the  pack  of  their 
past  and  try  to  catch  her  eye  with  its 
glitter.  But  her  effort  was  too  painful: 
chronology  fretted  her  like  a  lie  not  to 
be  borne.  She  had  already  pricked  the 
fallacy  of  time;  soon  she  would  have 
done  with  that  of  space. 

Her  heart  grew  weaker  as  the  spring 
came  on,  as  if  justifiably  revolting  against 
[  1991 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

the  burden  of  flesh  it  must  vitalize. 
Leaven  gave  sharp  directions  to  the  doc- 
tor to  save  her  pain.  He  suspected  too 
vividly  what  she  thought  of  pain  !  More- 
over, for  him,  it  was  the  arch-enemy. 
He  wished  her  to  float  out  on  a  stream 
of  diffused  consciousness  —  which  should 
widen  to  unconsciousness  at  the  last,  as 
a  river  widens  to  the  sea.  He  craved  for 
her  all  possible  amenities  of  dissolution. 
He  did  not  even  ask  her  to  welcome  the 
spring  as  it  floated  in  through  their 
wide-flung  windows.  He  only  hugged 
to  himself  the  fitness  of  her  dying  in 
a  gentler  air.  He  conspired  with  nurse 
and  physician  for  opiates  cunningly 
spaced,  that  there  should  be  no  agonies, 
that  she  should  slip  from  one  oblivion 
of  pain  into  the  next.  Cordelia  sat  in 
her  great  chair,  pillowed  and  propped 
into  the  semblance  of  antediluvian  bulk, 
an  object  so  monstrous  as  to  take  his 
[  200  1 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

breath  away  when  he  entered  after  an 
absence;  vast,  shapeless,  white,  like  a 
primeval  foreshadowing  of  the  human 
race  to  be.  Yet  her  voice,  when  it  came, 
was  sweet,  and  her  eyes  kind  as  no  other 
eyes  had  ever  been. 

It  was  not  the  way  he  had  dreamed 
of  having  Cordelia,  in  the  days  when  he 
had  dreamed  and  his  heart  was  not 
sapless  or  his  face  like  burnt-out  slag. 
(Not  bronze,  as  Bessie  John  had  said, 
since  bronze  has  blood  within.)  Yet 
Walter  Leaven  was  happier  to  have  her 
thus  than  he  could  have  been  to  have 
her  any  time  these  thirty  years.  He  had 
forgotten  now  the  long  ache  of  empty 
hands.  It  had  been  vouchsafed  him,  be- 
fore she  died,  to  serve  her:  to  appease 
a  lifelong  craving,  long  since  grown 
formal,  yet  still  there  as  a  sense  of  in- 
completeness, of  a  step  in  the  dance 
not  taken.  His  relation  to  her  was  all 
[201  ] 


A    CHANGE   OF    AIR 

piety  and  old  convention;  as  empty  of 
passion  as  the  beautiful  genuflections  of 
an  acolyte. 

Suddenly,  one  afternoon  in  raid-March, 
she  spoke  to  him  very  shyly.  "You  loved 
me,  didn't  you,  Walter?" 

"I  have  always  loved  you." 

"But  not  now?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No  — not  now." 

And  she  closed  her  eyes,  reassured. 

The  little  passage  was  not  gro- 
tesque to  Walter  Leaven,  for  he  under- 
stood. 

It  had  been  months  now  since  any 
one  had  been  admitted  to  Cordelia  ex- 
cept the  doctor  and  the  nurses.  Mr. 
Reid,  Mrs.  John,  Mrs.  Williston,  Miss 
Bean  —  all  of  them  had  been  turned 
away  and  now  came  no  more.  Cor- 
delia asked  no  questions  about  her  bene- 
ficiaries. It  caressed  some  surviving 
vanity  in  Leaven  that  the  only  human 
[  202  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

relation  she  should  have  referred  to 
spontaneously  was  his  to  her.  The  others 
were  lost  in  that  mist  of  kindness  which 
was  settling  each  day  a  little  more  im- 
penetrably upon  her  soul.  For  it  was  a 
mist,  through  which  the  lamps  shone 
ever  fainter  and  fewer.  Morphine  took 
care  of  that,  since  a  point  of  light  would 
now  be  a  point  of  pain. 

April  was  a  veiled  month.  The  sun 
rode  higher  and  more  kindly,  and 
Leaven,  as  I  have  said,  could  see  from 
his  windows  life  returning  to  the  world. 
But  within  the  grayness  deepened.  The 
sound  of  that  difficult  breathing  kept 
on  through  the  days  and  nights,  in- 
cessant, natural  as  a  hidden  water- 
course close  at  hand.  When  Leaven  went 
forth  into  the  streets,  he  missed  it  at 
the  heart  of  the  din.  He  was  neither 
impatient  nor  sad.  He  would  not  have 
hastened  or  delayed  Cordelia's  death 
[  203  1 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

by  the  lifting  of  a  secret  finger.  She 
must  not  suffer:  of  that  he  would  make 
sure.  But  the  thought  of  her  passing 
brought  no  relief.  He  was  consciously 
under  no  strain.  What  he  had  wanted 
had  been  vouchsafed  him;  and  the 
months  would  not  add  to  the  gift. 
Nothing  else,  ever  in  all  his  life,  could 
happen  to  him  now. 

Yet  when  the  doctor  told  him  the 
next  days  would  see  the  end,  he  be- 
stirred himself  a  little  from  his  peace. 
He  must  be  there  at  hand,  every  mo- 
ment, lest  in  some  last  lucid  instant 
she  should  wish  to  speak  to  him.  He 
knew  that  the  final  unconsciousness 
would  come  before  the  heart  stopped 
beating,  and  he  drugged  himself  with 
coffee  that  he  might  not  sleep  at  all. 
The  doctor's  advice  to  him  he  brushed 
aside  as  he  would  have  rejected  a  spuri- 
ous painting.  He  sat  for  hours,  listening 
[  204  ] 


I>-;ivrn    .    .    .    could  >cc  from  his  windows  life  returning  to  tin- 
world.      But  within  the  grayness  deepened. 


A    CHANGE   OF   AIR 

to  the  raucous  familiar  breathing,  watch- 
ing her  closed  eyelids. 

On  this  day  of  late  April,  the  sun  was 
driving  a  level  band  of  light  through 
the  western  windows.  He  motioned  to 
the  nurse  not  to  draw  the  curtain.  The 
light  was  not  yet  upon  Miss  Wheaton's 
face,  and  something  in  his  tradition 
craved  sunlight  for  her  at  the  end.  As 
he  bent  over  her,  never  taking  his  eyes 
from  her  closed  eyelids,  his  mind  went 
straying  a  little.  He  thought  of  the  ben- 
eficiaries —  all  those  people  to  whom 
this  woman  here  had  given  the  key  of 
the  fields.  He  was  glad  they  would  not 
know  the  moment  of  her  passing  —  that 
they  were  so  utterly  barred  out  from 
knowledge  of  her.  Then  it  came  to  him, 
with  a  slow  insistent  rush  of  conviction, 
that  he  himself  was  still  in  Cordelia's 
debt.  Nothing  he  had  done  for  her  in 
this  season  of  slow  dying  could  equal 
[205  ] 


A    CHANGE    OF   AIR 

the  beauty  of  her  complete  abandoning 
of  herself  to  his  care.  She  had  not  troubled 
him  with  thanks,  with  questions,  with 
deprecations.  She  had  not  even  —  oh, 
blessed  abstention  !  —  stated  her  case. 
She  had  taken  him  as  simply  as  one 
takes  God.  She  had  been  beautiful,  that 
is,  without  intention;  because  to  the 
very  core  of  her,  no  matter  what  gro- 
tesqueries  of  creed  overlaid  her  spirit, 
as  grotesqueries  of  flesh  overlaid  her 
pure  heart,  she  trusted  him.  She  was 
unconscious  of  charity,  whether  hers  or 
his,  thereby  creating  a  charity  that  he 
could  never  match. 

Never?  The  sun  placed  its  wide  finger 
of  light  upon  her  eyes.  They  opened  into 
what  must  have  been,  to  her  relaxed 
vision,  a  great  golden  mist.  Some  early 
irrelevant  moment  of  her  life  resumed 
her  in  her  weakness. 

"Heaven?"  she  murmured. 
[  206  ] 


A   CHANGE    OF   AIR 

Leaven  bent  his  face  close  to  hers, 
passionately  careful  not  to  touch  her 
or  to  intercept  the  sun. 

"Nirvana,"  he  murmured  back,  with 
a  lingering  clearness.  "Nirvana."  It  was 
with  no  passion  of  sympathy,  no  blur 
of  emotion,  that  he  spoke.  Leaven  had 
never  been  colder  than  when  he  grasped, 
ostensibly,  the  hoarded  sum  of  his  con- 
tempt and  flung  it  down  there  in  the 
sunlight,  to  pay  his  debt.  "Nirvana,"  he 
repeated,  deliberate,  insistent  as  a  mes- 
merist. 

The  faintest  smile,  as  if  some  little, 
some  infinitesimal  thing  had  been  set 
straight,  brushed  across  Cordelia's 
mouth.  The  sacrifice  of  his  lips'  in- 
tegrity had  not  been  made  in  vain. 
She  had  touched  and  remitted.  .  .  . 
Then  her  eyes  closed  again,  and  the 
nurse,  at  a  gesture  from  him,  drew  down 
the  shade. 

[  207  ] 


A   CHANGE   OF   AIR 

An  hour  later,  in  the  twilight,  the 
head  dropped,  and  the  breathing,  long 
since  almost  inaudible,  turned  to  silence. 
The  nurse  nodded;  and  Leaven  rose. 


[  208  1 


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